IBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL  [FORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


ROLAND  WHATELY 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

HEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 
TORONTO 


ROLAND    WHATELY 

A    Novel 


BY 

ALEC  WAUGH 

AUTHOE  OF  "THE  LOOM  OF  YOUTH" 


gorft 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1922 

All  Rights  Reserved 


FEINTED  IN   THB  UNITED  STATES   Or  AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BT  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  printed.     Published  September,  1922. 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


College 
Library 

p/e 


To  MY  FRIEND 
CLIFFORD  BAX 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.— THE  OPENING  ROUND 

CHAPTER 

I.    Two  HAPHAZARDS 3 

II.    THE  OUTCOME 14 

III.  RALPH  AND  APRIL 23 

IV.  A  Kiss 35 

V.    A  POTENTIAL  DIPLOMAT 44 

VI.    APRIL'S  LOOKING-GLASS 59 

VII.    A  SORRY  BUSINESS 67 

PART  II.— THE  RIVAL  FORCES 
VIII.    A  FORTUNATE  MEETING 99 

IX.      HOGSTEAD 112 

X.  YOUNG  LOVE 127 

XL  THE  ROMANCE  OF  VARNISH 151 

XII.  MARSTON  AND  MARSTON 167 

XIII.  LILITH  OF  OLD 175 

XIV.  THE  Two  CURRENTS 196 

PART  III.— THE  FIRST  ENCOUNTERS 

XV.    SUCCESS 209 

XVI.    LILITH  AND  MURIEL 244 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PART  IV.— ONE  WAY  OR  ANOTHER 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.    THREE  YEARS 253 

XVIII.    THREE  DAYS 261 

XIX.    THE  LONELY  UNICORN 285 

XX.    THERE'S  ROSEMARY 304 

XXI.  THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS   .     .     .  312 

XXII.  AN  END  AND  A  BEGINNING  ...          .331 


PART  I 

THE  OPENING  ROUND 


CHAPTER  I 

TWO  HAPHAZARDS 

IT  began,  I  suppose,  on  a  certain  September  after- 
noon, when  Roland  Whately  traveled  back  to 
school  by  the  three-thirty  train  from  Waterloo. 
There  were  two  afternoon  trains  to  Fernhurst:  one 
left  London  at  three-thirty  and  arrived  at  a  quarter 
to  six;  the  other  left  at  four-eighteen,  stopped  at 
every  station  between  Basingstoke  and  Salisbury, 
waited  twenty-five  minutes  at  Templecombe  for  a 
connection,  and  finally  reached  Fernhurst  at  eight- 
twenty-three.  It  is  needless  to  state  that  by  far  the 
greater  part  of  the  school  traveled  down  by  the  four- 
eighteen — who  for  the  sake  of  a  fast  train  and  a  com- 
fortable journey  would  surrender  forty-eight  minutes 
of  his  holidays? — and  usually,  of  course,  Roland  ac- 
companied the  many. 

This  term,  however,  the  advantages  of  the  fast 
train  were  considerable.  He  was  particularly  anxious 
to  have  the  corner  bed  in  his  dormitory.  There  was 
a  bracket  above  it  where  he  could  place  a  candle,  by 
the  light  of  which  he  would  be  able  to  learn  his  rep. 
after  "lights  out."  If  he  were  not  there  first  someone 
else  would  be  sure  to  collar  it.  And  then  there  was 
the  new  study  at  the  end  of  the  passage;  he  wanted 

3 


4  ROLAND  WHATELY 

to  get  fresh  curtains  and  probably  a  gas  mantle :  when 
once  the  school  was  back  it  was  impossible,  for  at 
least  a  week,  to  persuade  Charlie,  the  school  custos, 
to  attend  to  an  odd  job  like  that.  And  so  he  traveled 
back  by  a  train  that  contained,  of  the  three  hundred 
boys  who  were  on  the  Fernhurst  roll,  only  a  dozen 
fags  and  three  timid  Sixth-Formers  who  had  dis- 
trusted the  animal  spirits  of  certain  powerful  and 
irreverent  Fifth-Formers.  On  the  first  day,  as  on 
the  last,  privilege  counts  for  little,  and  it  is  unpleas- 
ant to  pass  four  hours  under  the  seat  of  a  dusty 
railway  carriage. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Roland  had  been  able  to 
spend  the  first  evening  of  a  term  in  complete  leisure. 
He  walked  quietly  up  to  the  house,  went  down  to  the 
matron's  room  and  consulted  the  study  and  dormitory 
lists.  He  found  that  he  was  on  the  Sixth-Form  table, 
had  been  given  the  study  for  which  he  had  applied, 
and  was  in  the  right  dormitory.  He  bagged  the  bed 
he  wanted,  and  took  his  health  certificate  round  to 
the  Chiefs  study. 

"Ah,  Whately,  this  is  very  early.  Had  a  good  holi- 
day?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,  sir." 

"Feeling  ready  for  football?  They  tell  me  you've 
an  excellent  chance  of  getting  into  the  XV.?" 

"I  hope  so,  sir." 

He  went  over  to  the  studies  and  inspected  the  gas 
fittings.  Yes,  he  would  certainly  need  a  new  mantle, 
and  he  must  try  to  see  if  Charlie  couldn't  fit  him  up 
with  a  new  curtain.  After  a  brief  deliberation  Charles 
decided  that  he  could;  a  half  crown  changed  hands, 
and  as  Roland  strolled  back  from  the  lodge  the  Abbey 
clock  struck  half-past  six.  Over  two  hours  to  prayers. 
He  had  done  all  his  jobs,  and  there  didn't  seem  to  be 


TWO  HAPHAZARDS  5 

a  soul  in  the  place.  He  began  to  wonder  whether, 
after  all,  it  had  been  worth  his  while  to  catch  that 
early  train:  it  had  been  a  dull  journey,  two  hours  in 
the  company  of  three  frightened  fags,  outhouse  fel- 
lows whom  he  didn't  know,  and  who  had  huddled 
away  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage  and  talked  in  whis- 
pers. If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  had  waited  for  the 
four-eighteen  he  would  at  that  moment  be  sitting  with 
five  or  six  first-class  fellows>  talking  of  last  year's  rags, 
of  the  new  prefects,  and  the  probable  composition  of 
the  XV.  He  would  be  much  happier  there.  And  as 
for  the  dormitory  and  study,  well,  he'd  have  probably 
been  able  to  manage  if  he  had  hurried  from  the  sta- 
tion. He  had  done  so  a  good  many  times  before.  Al- 
together he  had  made  a  bit  of  an  ass  of  himself.  An 
impetuous  fool,  that  was  what  he  was. 

And  for  want  of  anything  better  to  do,  he  mouched 
down  to  Ruffer's,  the  unofficial  tuck-shop.  There  was 
no  one  he  knew  in  the  front  of  the  shop,  so  he  walked 
into  the  inside  room  and  found,  sitting  in  a  far  cor- 
ner, eating  an  ice,  Howard,  one  of  the  senior  men  in 
Morgan's. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "So  you've  been  ass  enough  to 
come  down  by  the  early  train  as  well?" 

"Yes,  I  was  coming  up  from  Cornwall,  and  it's  the 
only  way  I  could  make  the  trains  fit  in.  A  bad  busi- 
ness. There's  nothing  to  do  but  eat;  come  and  join 
me  in  an  ice." 

Howard  was  only  a  very  casual  acquaintance;  he 
was  no  use  at  games ;  he  had  never  been  in  the  same 
form  as  Roland,  and  fellows  in  the  School  house  usu- 
ally kept  pretty  much  to  themselves.  They  had  only 
met  in  groups  outside  the  chapel,  or  at  roll-call,  or 
before  a  lecture.  It  was  probably  the  first  time  they 
had  ever  been  alone  together. 


6  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Right  you  are!"  said  Roland.  "Mr.  Ruffer,  bring 
me  a  large  strawberry  ice  and  a  cup  of  coffee." 

But  the  ice  did  not  last  long,  and  they  were  soon 
strolling  up  the  High  Street,  with  time  heavy  on  their 
hands.  Conversation  flagged;  they  had  very  little  in 
common. 

"I  know,"  said  Howard.  "Let's  go  down  to  the 
castle  grounds;  they'll  probably  have  a  band,  and  we 
can  watch  the  dancing." 

Halfway  between  the  station  and  the  school,  oppo- 
site the  Eversham  Hotel,  where  parents  stopped  for 
"commem"  and  confirmation,  was  a  public  garden 
with  a  band  stand  and  well-kept  lawns,  and  here  on 
warm  summer  evenings  dances  would  promote  and 
encourage  the  rustic  courtships  of  the  youthful  towns- 
folk. During  the  term  these  grounds  were  strictly  out 
of  bounds  to  the  school;  but  on  the  first  night  rules 
did  not  exist,  and  besides,  no  one  was  likely  to  recog- 
nize them  in  the  bowler  hats  and  colored  ties  that 
would  have  to  be  put  away  that  night  in  favor  of 
black  poplin  and  broad  white  straw. 

It  was  a  warm  night,  and  they  leaned  against  the 
railing  watching  the  girls  in  their  light  print  dresses 
waltz  in  the  clumsy  arms  of  their  selected. 

"Looks  awfully  jolly,"  said  Howard.  "They  don't 
have  a  bad  time,  those  fellows.  There  are  one  or  two 
rippingly  pretty  girls." 

"And  look  at  the  fellows  they're  dancing  with.  I 
can't  think  how  they  can  stand  it.  Now  look  there, 
at  that  couple  by  the  stand.  She's  a  really  pretty  girl, 
while  her  man  is  pimply,  with  a  scraggy  mustache 
and  sweating  forehead,  and  yet  look  how  she's  leaning 
over  his  shoulder;  think  of  her  being  kissed  by  that." 

"I  suppose  there's  something  about  him." 

"I  suppose  so." 


TWO  HAPHAZARDS  7 

There  was  a  pause;  Roland  wished  that  difference 
of  training  and  position  did  not  hold  them  from  the 
revel. 

"By  Jove!"  said  Roland,  "it  would  be  awful  fun  to 
join  them." 

"Well,  I  dare  you  to." 

"Dare  say  you  do.  I'm  not  having  any.  I  don't 
run  risks  in  a  place  where  I'm  known." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Roland  did  not  run  risks  any- 
where, but  he  wanted  Howard  to  think  him  something 
of  a  Don  Juan.  One  is  always  ashamed  of  innocence, 
and  Howard  was  one  of  those  fellows  who  naturally 
bring  out  the  worst  side  of  their  companions.  His 
boisterous,  assertive  confidence  was  practically  a  chal- 
lenge, and  Roland  did  not  enjoy  the  role  of  listener 
and  disciple,  especially  as  Howard  was,  by  the  school 
standards,  socially  his  inferior. 

At  that  moment  two  girls  strolled  past,  turned,  and 
giggled  over  their  shoulders. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  said  Roland. 

"What  about  it?" 

"Well,  I  mean  .  .  ." 

The  girls  were  coming  back,  and  suddenly,  to  Ro- 
land's surprise,  embarrassment  and  annoyance, 
Howard  walked  forward  and  raised  his  hat. 

"Lonely?"  he  said. 

"Same  as  you." 

"Like  a  walk,  then?" 

"All  right,  if  your  friend's  not  too  shy." 

And  before  Roland  could  make  any  protest  he  was 
walking,  tongue-tied  and  helpless,  on  the  arm  of  a  full- 
blown shop  girl. 

"Well,  you're  a  cheerful  sort  of  chap,  aren't  you?" 
she  said  at  last. 

"Sorry,  but  you  see  I  wasn't  expecting  you!" 


8  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Oh,  she  didn't  turn  up,  I  suppose?" 

"I  didn't  mean  that." 

"Oh,  get  along,  I  know  you;  you're  all  the  same. 
Why,  I  was  talking  to  a  boy  last  week  .  .  ." 

To  save  her  the  indignity  of  a  confession,  Roland 
suggested  that  they  should  dance. 

"All  right,  only  don't  hold  me  too  tight — sister's 
looking." 

There  was  no  need  to  talk  while  they  were  dancing, 
and  he  was  glad  to  be  able  to  collect  his  thoughts.  It 
was  an  awkward  business.  She  wasn't  on  the  whole 
a  bad-looking  girl;  she  was  certainly  too  plump,  but 
she  had  a  nice  smile  and  pretty  hair;  and  he  felt  no 
end  of  a  dog.  But  it  was  impossible  to  become  roman- 
tic, for  she  giggled  every  time  he  tried  to  hold  her  a 
little  closer,  and  once  when  his  cheek  brushed  acciden- 
tally against  hers  she  gave  him  a  great  push,  and 
shouted,  "Now,  then,  naughty!"  to  the  intense  amuse- 
ment of  another  couple.  Still,  he  enjoyed  dancing 
with  her.  It  would  be  something  to  tell  the  fellows 
afterwards.  They  would  be  sitting  in  the  big  study. 
Gradually  the  talk  would  drift  round  to  girls.  He 
would  sit  in  silence  while  the  others  would  relate  in- 
vented escapades,  prefaced  by,  "My  brother  told  me," 
or,  "I  saw  in  a  French  novel."  He  would  wait  for  the 
lull,  then  himself  would  let  fall — oh !  so  gently — into 
the  conversation,  "a  girl  that  I  danced  with  in  the 
castle  grounds  .  .  ." 

The  final  crash  of  the  band  recalled  him  to  the  re- 
quirements of  the  moment,  and  the  need  for  conver- 
sation. They  sat  on  a  seat  and  discussed  the  weather, 
the  suitability  of  grass  as  a  dancing  floor,  the  superi- 
ority of  a  band  over  a  piano.  He  introduced  subject 
after  subject,  bringing  them  up  one  after  another,  like 
the  successive  waves  of  infantry  in  an  attack.  It  was 


TWO  HAPHAZARDS  9 

not  a  success.  The  first  bars  of  a  waltz  were  a  great 
relief. 

He  jumped  up  and  offered  her  his  arm. 

"From  the  school,  aren't  you?"  she  said. 

"How  did  you  guess?"  he  asked.  She  answered  him 
with  a  giggle. 

It  was  a  blow,  admittedly  a  blow.  He  had  not 
imagined  himself  a  shining  success,  but  he  had  not 
thought  that  he  was  giving  himself  away  quite  as 
badly  as  that.  They  got  on  a  great  deal  better  though 
after  it.  They  knew  where  they  were,  and  he  found 
her  a  very  jolly  girl,  a  simple  creature,  whose  one 
idea  was  to  be  admired  and  to  enjoy  herself,  an  am- 
bition not  so  very  different  from  Roland's.  It  was 
her  sense  of  humor  that  beat  him :  she  giggled  most 
of  the  time;  why  he  could  not  understand.  It  was 
annoying,  because  everyone  stared  at  them,  and 
Roland  hated  to  be  conspicuous.  He  was  prepared 
to  enjoy  the  illusion  but  not  the  reality  in  public. 
He  was  not  therefore  very  sorry  when  the  Abbey 
clock  warned  him  that  in  a  few  minutes  the  four- 
eighteen  would  have  arrived  and  that  the  best  place 
for  him  was  the  School  house  dining  room. 

On  the  way  back  he  met  Howard. 

"I  say,  you  rather  let  me  in  for  it,  you  know,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  rot,  my  dear  chap ;  but  even  if  I  did,  I'll  bet 
you  enjoyed  yourself  all  right." 

"Perhaps  I  did.  But  that  makes  no  difference. 
After  all,  you  didn't  know  I  was  going  to.  I'd  never 
seen  the  girl  before." 

"But  one  never  has  on  these  occasions,  has  one? 
One's  got  to  trust  to  luck;  you  know  that  as  well  as 
I  do." 

"Of  course,  of  course,  but  still  .  .  ." 


10  ROLAND  WHATELY 

They  argued  it  out  till  they  reached  the  cloisters 
leading  to  the  School  house  studies,  exchanged  there 
a  cheery  good-night  and  went  their  way.  Five  min- 
utes later  the  four-eighteen  was  in;  the  study  pas- 
sages were  filled  with  shouts ;  Roland  was  running  up 
and  down  stairs,  greeting  his  old  friends.  The  inci- 
dent was  closed,  and  in  the  normal  course  of  things  it 
would  never  have  been  reopened. 

That  it  was  reopened  was  due  entirely,  if  indirectly, 
to  Roland's  laziness  on  a  wet  Sunday  afternoon,  half- 
way through  October.  It  was  a  really  wet  afternoon, 
the  sort  of  afternoon  when  there  is  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  pack  one's  study  full  of  really  good  chaps  and 
get  up  a  decent  fug.  Any  small  boy  can  be  persuaded, 
with  the  aid  of  a  shilling,  to  brew  some  tea,  and  there 
are  few  things  better  than  to  sit  in  the  window-seat 
and  watch  the  gravel  courts  turn  to  an  enormous  lake. 
Roland  was  peculiarly  aware  of  the  charm  of  an  after- 
noon so  spent  as  he  walked  across  to  his  study  after 
lunch,  disquieted  by  the  knowledge  that  his  football 
boots  wanted  restudding  and  that  the  night  before  he 
had  vowed  solemnly  that  he  would  take  them  down  to 
the  professional  before  tea.  It  would  be  fatal  to 
leave  them  any  longer,  and  he  knew  it.  The  ground 
on  Saturday  had  been  too  wet  for  football,  and  the 
whole  house  had  gone  for  a  run,  during  which  Roland 
had  worn  down  one  of  his  studs  on  the  hard  roads, 
and  driven  a  nail  that  uncomfortable  hundredth  of  an 
inch  through  the  sole  of  his  boot.  If  he  wore  those 
boots  again  before  they  had  been  mended  that  hun- 
dredth of  an  inch  would  become  a  tenth  of  an  inch, 
and  make  no  small  part  of  a  crater  in  his  foot.  It 
was  obviously  up  to  him  to  put  on  a  mackintosh  and 
go  down  to  the  field  at  once.  There  was  no  room  for 
argument,  and  Roland  knew  it,  but  .  .  . 


TWO  HAPHAZARDS  11 

It  was  very  pleasant  and  warm  inside  the  study  and 
damnably  unpleasant  anywhere  else.  If  only  he  were 
a  prefect,  and  had  a  fag,  how  simple  his  life  would 
become.  His  shoes  would  be  cleaned  for  him,  his 
shaving  water  would  be  boiled  in  the  morning,  his 
books  would  be  carried  down  to  his  classroom,  and 
on  this  rain-drenched  afternoon  he  would  only  have 
to  put  his  head  outside  the  study  door  and  yell  "Fag!" 
and  it  would  be  settled.  But  he  was  not  a  prefect, 
and  he  had  no  fag.  It  was  no  use  growling  about  it. 
He  would  have  to  go,  of  course  he  would  have  to  go, 
then  added  as  a  corollary — yes,  certainly,  at  three 
o'clock.  By  that  time  the  weather  might  have 
cleared  up. 

But  it  had  not  cleared  up  by  three  o'clock,  and 
Roland  had  become  hopelessly  intrigued  by  a  novel 
by  Wilkie  Collins,  called  The  Moonstone.  He  had 
just  reached  the  place  where  Sergeant  Cuff  looks  up 
at  Rachel's  window  and  whistles  The  Last  Rose  of 
Summer.  He  could  not  desert  Sergeant  Cuff  at  such 
a  point  for  a  pair  of  football  boots,  and  at  three 
o'clock,  with  the  whole  afternoon  before  him.  At 
half-past  there  would  be  tons  of  time.  But  by  half- 
past  three  it  was  raining  in  the  true  Fernhurst  man- 
ner, fierce,  driving  rain  that  whipped  across  the 
courts,  heavy  gusts  of  wind  that  shrieked  down  the 
cloisters.  Impossible  weather,  absolutely  impossible 
weather.  No  one  but  a  fool  would  go  out  in  it.  He 
would  wait  till  four,  it  was  certain  to  have  stopped  a 
bit  by  then. 

And  by  four  o'clock  it  certainly  was  raining  a  good 
deal  less,  but  by  four  o'clock  some  eight  persons  had 
assembled  in  the  study  and  a  most  exciting  discussion 
was  in  progress.  Someone  from  Morgan's  had  started 
a  rumor  to  the  effect  that  Fitzgerald,  the  vice-captain 


12  ROLAND  WHATELY 

of  the  XV.,  was  going  to  be  dropped  out  of  the  side  for 
the  Tonwich  match  and  his  place  given  to  Feversham, 
a  reserve  center  from  James's.  It  was  a  startling  piece 
of  news  that  had  to  be  discussed  from  every  point  of 
view. 

First  of  all,  would  the  side  be  improved?  A  doubt- 
ful matter.  Fitzgerald  had  certainly  been  out  of  form 
this  season,  and  he  had  played  miserably  in  the  last 
two  matches,  but  he  had  experience ;  he  would  not  be 
likely  to  lose  his  head  in  a  big  game,  and  Feversham, 
well,  it  would  be  his  first  school  match.  Altogether 
a  doubtful  issue,  and,  granted  even  that  Feversham 
was  better  than  Fitzgerald,  would  it  be  worth  while 
in  the  long  run  to  leave  out  the  vice-captain  and  head 
of  Buxton's?  Would  it  be  doing  a  good  service  to 
Fernhurst  football?  Buxton's  was  the  athletic  house ; 
it  had  six  school  colors.  The  prestige  of  Fernhurst 
depended  a  good  deal  on  the  prestige  of  Buxton's. 
Surely  the  prestige  of  Buxton's  was  more  important 
than  a  problematic  improvement  in  the  three-quarter 
line. 

They  argued  it  out  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  and 
then,  just  when  the  last  point  had  been  brought  for- 
ward, and  Roland  had  begun  to  feel  that  he  was  left 
with  no  possible  excuse  for  not  going  down  to  the  field, 
the  tea  arrived;  and  after  that  what  chance  did  he 
stand?  By  the  time  tea  was  over  it  was  nearly  five 
o'clock.  Choir  practice  would  have  started  in  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour:  if  he  wanted  to,  he  could  not  have 
gone  down  then.  A  bad  business.  But  it  had  been  a 
pleasant  afternoon;  it  was  raining  like  blazes  still; 
very  likely  the  ground  would  be  again  too  wet  for 
play  to-morrow,  and  he  would  cut  the  walk  and  get 
his  boots  mended.  No  doubt  things  would  pan  out 
all  right 


TWO  HAPHAZARDS  13 

Things,  however,  did  not  on  this  occasion  adapt 
themselves  to  Roland's  wishes.  The  rain  stopped 
shortly  after  eight  o'clock;  a  violent  wind  shrieked 
all  night  along  the  cloisters ;  next  morning  the  violent 
wind  was  accompanied  by  bright  sunshine;  by  half- 
past  two  the  ground  was  almost  dry.  Roland  played 
in  his  unstudded  boots,  and,  as  he  had  expected,  the 
projecting  hundredth  of  an  inch  sank  deeply  into  his 
toe.  Three  days  later  he  was  sent  up  to  the  sanatorium 
with  a  poisoned  foot. 

And  in  the  sanatorium  he  found  himself  in  the 
same  ward  and  alone  with  Howard,  who  was  recover- 
ing from  an  attack  of  "flu"  that  had  been  incorrectly 
diagnosed  as  measles. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  the  first 
evening  of  the  term. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  OUTCOME 

WHEN  two  people  are  left  alone  together  all  day, 
with  no  amusement  except  their  own  conversa- 
tion, they  naturally  become  intimate,  and  as  the  epi- 
sode of  the  dance  was  the  only  bond  of  interest  be- 
tween Howard  and  Roland,  they  turned  to  it  at  once. 
As  soon  as  the  matron  had  gone  out  of  the  room  How- 
ard asked  if  he  had  been  forgiven. 

"Oh,  yes,  a  long  time  ago;  it  was  a  jolly  rag." 

"Seen  anything  of  your  girl  since  then?" 

"Heavens!  no.     Have  you?" 

"I  should  jolly  well  think  so;  one  doesn't  let  a 
thing  like  that  slip  through  one's  fingers  in  a  hurry. 
I  go  out  with  her  every  Sunday,  and  as  likely  as  not 
once  or  twice  during  the  week." 

Roland  was  struck  with  surprise  and  admiration. 

"But  how  on  earth  do  you  manage  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  quite  easy:  in  our  house  anyone  can  get 
out  who  wants  to.  The  old  man  never  spots  anything. 
I  just  heave  on  a  cap  and  mackintosh,  meet  her  be- 
hind the  Abbey  and  we  go  for  a  stroll  along  the 
Slopes." 

Roland  could  only  ask  too  many  questions  and 
Howard  was  only  too  ready  to  answer  them.  He  had 
seldom  enjoyed  such  a  splendid  audience.  He  was  not 
thought  much  of  in  the  school,  and  to  tell  the  truth 
he  was  not  much  of  a  fellow.  He  had  absorbed  the 

14 


THE  OUTCOME  15 

worst  characteristics  of  a  bad  house.  He  would  prob- 
ably after  he  had  left  spend  his  evenings  hanging 
about  private  bars  and  the  stage  doors  of  second- 
class  music  halls.  But  he  was  an  interesting  com- 
panion in  the  sanatorium,  and  he  and  Roland  dis- 
cussed endlessly  the  eternally  fascinating  subject  of 
girls. 

"The  one  thing  that  you  must  never  do  with  a  girl 
is  to  be  shy,"  Howard  said.  "That's  the  one  fatal 
thing  that  she'll  never  forgive.  You  can  do  anything 
you  like  with  any  girl  if  only  you  go  the  right  way 
about  it.  She  doesn't  care  whether  you  are  good- 
looking  or  rich  or  clever,  but  if  she  feels  that  you 
know  more  than  she  does,  that  she  can  trust  herself 
in  your  hands.  .  .  .  It's  all  personality.  If  a  girl  tries 
to  push  you  away  when  you  kiss  her,  don't  worry  her, 
kiss  her  again ;  she  only  wants  to  be  persuaded ;  she'd 
despise  you  if  you  stopped ;  girls  are  weak  themselves, 
so  they  hate  weakness.  You  can  take  it  from  me, 
Whately,  that  girls  are  an  easy  game  when  you  know 
the  way  to  treat  them.  It  would  surprise  you  if  you 
could  only  know  what  they  were  thinking.  You'll 
see  them  sitting  at  your  father's  table,  so  demure, 
with  their,  'Yes,  Mr.  Howard/  and  their  'No,  Mr. 
Howard.'  You'd  think  they'd  stepped  out  of  the 
pages  of  a  fairy  book,  and  yet  get  those  same  girls 
alone,  and  in  the  right  mood,  my  word  .  .  ." 

Inflammatory,  suggestive  stuff:  the  pimp  in  em- 
bryo. 

And  Roland  was  one  of  those  on  whom  such  per- 
sons thrive.  He  had  always  kept  straight  at  school; 
he  was  not  clever  nor  imaginative,  but  he  was  ambi- 
tious: and  he  had  realized  early  that  if  he  wanted 
to  become  a  power  in  the  school  he  must  needs  be  a 
success  at  games.  He  had  kept  clear  of  anything  that 


16  ROLAND  WHATELY 

had  seemed  likely  to  impair  his  prowess  on  the  field. 
But  it  was  different  for  him  here  in  the  sanatorium, 
with  no  exercise  and  occupation.  In  a  very  little  while 
he  had  become  thoroughly  roused.  Howard  had  en- 
joyed a  certain  number  of  doubtful  experiences;  had 
read  several  of  the  books  that  appear  in  the  adver- 
tisements of  obscure  French  papers  as  "rare  and  cu- 
rious." He  had  in  addition  a  good  imagination. 
Within  two  days  Roland's  one  idea  was  to  pick  up  at 
the  first  opportunity  the  threads  of  the  romance  he 
had  so  callously  flung  aside. 

"There'll  be  no  difficulty  about  that,  my  dear  fel- 
low," said  Howard.  "I  can  easily  get  Betty  to  ar- 
range it.  We  meet  every  Sunday,  and  we  have  to 
walk  right  out  beyond  Cold  Harbor.  She  says  she 
feels  a  bit  lonely  going  out  all  that  way  by  herself. 
Now  suppose  she  went  out  with  your  girl  and  you 
went  out  with  me — that'd  be  pretty  simple,  wouldn't 
it?" 

"Oh,  that  would  be  splendid.  Do  you  think  you 
could  fix  it  up?" 

"As  easy  as  laughing." 

"But  I  shall  feel  an  awful  fool,"  Roland  insisted. 
"I  shan't  know  what  to  say  or  anything." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that,  my  dear  fellow ;  you 
just  look  as  if  you  did  and  keep  your  eyes  open,  and 
you'll  soon  learn;  these  girls  know  a  lot  more  than 
you  would  think." 

So  it  was  arranged.  Roland  found  by  the  time  his 
foot  was  right  again  that  he  had  let  himself  in  for  a 
pretty  exacting  program.  It  had  all  seemed  jolly 
enough  up  at  the  sanatorium,  but  when  he  was  back 
in  the  house,  and  life  reestablished  its  old  values,  he 
began  to  regret  it  very  heartily.  He  didn't  mind  go- 
ing out  with  the  girl — that  would  be  quite  exciting: 


THE  OUTCOME  17 

besides  it  was  an  experience  to  which  everyone  had 
to  come  some  time  or  other — but  he  did  not  look  for- 
ward to  a  long  walk  with  Howard  every  Sunday  after- 
noon for  the  rest  of  the  term. 

"Whately,  old  son,"  he  said  to  his  reflection  in  the 
glass  as  he  shaved  himself  on  the  next  Sunday  morn- 
ing, "you've  made  a  pretty  sanguinary  fool  of  your- 
self, but  you  can't  clear  out  now.  You've  got  to  see 
it  through." 

It  was  very  awkward  though  when  Anderson  ran 
up  to  him  in  the  cloisters  with  "Hullo,  Whately,  go- 
ing out  for  a  stroll?  Well,  just  wait  half-a-sec,  while 
I  fetch  my  hat."  Roland  had  an  infernal  job  getting 
rid  of  him. 

"But,  my  dear  man,"  Anderson  had  protested, 
"where  on  earth  are  you  going?  I've  always  thought 
you  the  most  pious  man  in  the  house.  But  if  it's  a 
smoke  I'll  watch  you,  and  if  it's  a  drink  I'll  help  you." 

"Oh,  no,  it's  not  that.  I'm  going  out  with  a  man  in 
Morgan's." 

Anderson's  mouth  emitted  a  long  whistle  of  sur- 
prise. 

"So  our  Whately  has  deserted  his  old  friends?  Ah, 
well,  when  one  gets  into  the  XV.,  I  know." 

Roland  could  see  that  Anderson  was  offended. 

But  it  was  even  worse  when  he  came  back  to  find 
his  study  full  of  seven  indignant  sportsmen  wanting 
to  know  why  on  earth  he  had  taken  to  going  out  for 
walks  with  "a  dirty  tick  in  Morgan's,  who  was  no 
use  at  anything  and  didn't  even  wash." 

"He's  quite  a  decent  chap,"  said  Roland  weakly. 
"I  met  him  in  the  san." 

"I  dare  say  you  did,"  said  Anderson;  "we're  not 
blaming  you  for  that.  You  couldn't  help  it.  But 
those  sorts  of  things,  one  does  try  to  live  down." 


18  ROLAND  WHATELY 

For  days  he  was  ragged  about  it,  so  much  so  that 
he  hadn't  the  face  to  say  he  had  been  going  out  with 
a  girl.  Such  a  statement  should  be  a  proud  acknowl- 
edgment, not  a  confession.  If  ever  he  said  he  couldn't 
go  anywhere,  or  do  something,  the  invariable  retort 
was,  "I  suppose  you're  going  out  for  a  walk  with 
Howard." 

The  School  house  was  exclusive;  it  was  insular;  it 
was  prepared  to  allow  the  possibility  of  its  members 
having  friends  in  the  outhouses;  there  were  good  men 
in  the  outhouses,  even  in  Morgan's.  But  one  had  to 
be  particular,  and  when  it  came  to  Whately,  a  man  of 
whom  the  house  was  proud,  deserting  his  friends  for 
a  greasy  swine  in  Morgan's  who  didn't  wash,  well, 
the  least  one  could  do  was  to  make  the  man  realize 
that  he  had  gone  a  little  far. 

It  was  a  bad  business,  altogether  a  bad  business,  and 
Roland  very  much  doubted  whether  the  hour  and  a 
half  he  spent  with  Dolly  was  an  adequate  recompense. 
She  was  a  nice  girl,  quite  a  nice  girl,  and  they  found 
themselves  on  kissing  terms  quickly  enough.  There 
were  no  signs  of  their  getting  any  further,  and,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  if  there  had  been,  Roland  would  have 
been  extremely  alarmed.  He  objected  to  awkward 
situations  and  intense  emotions :  he  preferred  to  keep 
his  life  within  the  decent  borders  of  routine.  He 
wanted  adventure  certainly,  but  adventure  bounded 
by  the  limits  of  the  society  in  which  he  lived.  He 
liked  to  feel  that  his  day  was  tabulated  and  arranged  ; 
he  hated  that  lost  feeling  of  being  unprepared;  he 
liked  to  know  exactly  what  he  had  to  say  to  Dolly 
before  he  could  hold  her  hand  and  exactly  what  he 
had  to  say  before  she  would  let  him  kiss  her.  It 
was  a  game  that  had  to  be  rehearsed  before  one  got 
it  right;  no  actor  enjoys  his  part  before  he  has 


THE  OUTCOME  19 

learned  his  words;  when  he  had  learned  the  rules  it 
was  great  fun ;  kisses  were  pleasant  things.  He  wrote 
a  letter  to  his  friend,  Ralph  Richmond,  acquainting 
him  of  this  fact. 

MY  DEAR  RALPH, — Why  haven't  you  written  to 
me,  you  lazy  swine?  I  suppose  you  will  say  that 
you're  awfully  hard  worked,  getting  ready  for  Smalls. 
But  I  don't  believe  it.  I  know  how  much  I  do  my- 
self. 

It's  been  quite  a  decent  term.  I  got  my  colors  and 
shall  be  captain  of  the  house  after  the  summer  if  the 
people  I  think  are  going  to  leave  do  leave.  Think  of 
me  as  a  ruler  of  men.  I'm  having  a  pretty  good  slack 
in  form  and  don't  have  to  do  any  work,  except  in 
French,  where  a  fellow  called  Carus  Evans,  an  awful 
swine,  has  his  knife  into  me  and  puts  me  on  whenever 
we  get  to  a  hard  bit.  However,  as  I  never  do  much 
else  I'm  able  to  swot  the  French  all  right. 

The  great  bit  of  news,  though,  is  that  I've  met  a 
girl  in  the  town  who  I  go  out  for  walks  with.  I'm 
not  really  keen  on  her,  and  I  think  I  prefer  her  friend, 
Betty  (we  go  in  couples).  Betty's  much  older  and 
she's  dark  and  she  makes  you  blush  when  she  looks 
at  you.  Still,  Dolly's  very  jolly,  and  we  go  out  for 
walks  every  Sunday  and  have  great  times.  She  lets 
me  kiss  her  as  much  as  I  like.  Now  what  do  you 
think  of  it?  Write  and  tell  me  at  once.  Yours  ever, 

ROLAND. 

Two  days  later  Roland  received  the  following 
reply: 

MY  DEAR  ROLAND, — So  glad  to  hear  from  you  again, 
and  many  congratulations  on  your  firsts.  I  had  heard 
about  them  as  a  matter  of  fact,  and  had  been  meaning 


20  ROLAND  WHATELY 

to  write  to  you,  but  I  am  very  busy  just  now.  April 
told  me  about  it;  she  seemed  awfully  pleased.  I  must 
say  she  was  looking  jolly  pretty;  she  thinks  a  lot  of 
you.  Sort  of  hero.  If  I  were  you  I  should  think  a 
bit  more  about  her  and  a  little  less  about  your  Bettys 
and  Dollys. 

I'm  looking  forward  to  the  holidays.  We  must 
manage  to  have  a  few  good  rags  somehow.  The  Saun- 
dersons  are  giving  a  dance,  so  that  ought  to  be 
amusing.  Ever  yours,  RALPH. 

Roland's  comment  on  this  letter  was  "Jealous  little 
beast."  He  wished  he  hadn't  written  to  him.  And 
why  drag  April  in?  He  and  April  were  great  friends; 
they  always  had  been.  Once  they  had  imagined  them- 
selves sweethearts.  When  they  went  out  to  parties 
they  had  always  sat  next  each  other  during  tea  and 
held  hands  under  the  table;  in  general  post  Roland 
had  often  been  driven  into  the  center  because  of  a 
brilliant  failure  to  take  the  chair  that  was  next  to 
hers.  They  had  kissed  sometimes  at  dances  in  the 
shadow  of  a  passage,  and  once  at  a  party,  when  they 
had  been  pulling  crackers,  he  had  slipped  on  to  the 
fourth  finger  of  her  left  hand  a  brass  ring  that  had 
fallen  from  the  crumpled  paper.  She  still  kept  that 
ring,  although  the  days  of  courtship  were  over.  Ro- 
land had  altered  since  he  had  gone  to  Fernhurst. 
But  they  were  great  friends,  and  there  was  always  an 
idea  between  the  two  families  that  the  children  might 
eventually  marry.  Mr.  Whately  was,  indeed,  fond 
of  prefacing  some  remote  speculation  about  the  fu- 
ture with,  "By  the  time  Roland  and  April  are  mar- 
ried  

There  was  no  need,  Roland  felt,  for  Ralph  to  have 
dragged  April  into  the  business  at  all.  He  was  ag- 


THE  OUTCOME  21 

grieved,  and  the  whole  business  seemed  again  a  waste 
and  an  encumbrance.  Was  it  worth  while?  He  got 
ragged  in  the  house,  and  he  had  to  spend  an  hour  in 
Howard's  company  before  he  met  Dolly  at  all.  How- 
ard was  really  rather  terrible;  so  conceited,  so  fa- 
miliar; and  now  that  he  had  found  an  audience  he 
indulged  it  the  whole  time.  He  was  at  his  worst 
when  he  attempted  sentiment.  Once  when  they  were 
walking  back  he  turned  to  Roland,  in  the  middle  of 
a  soliloquy,  with  a  gesture  of  profound  disdain  and 
resignation. 

"But  what's  all  this  after  all?"  he  said.  "It's 
nothing;  it's  pleasant;  it  passes  the  time,  and  we 
have  to  have  some  distractions  in  this  place  to  keep 
us  going.  But  it's  not  the  real  thing;  there's  all  the 
difference  in  the  world  between  this  and  the  real 
thing.  A  kiss  can  be  anything  or  nothing;  it  can 
raise  one  to — to  any  height,  or  it  can  be  like  eating 
chocolates.  I'm  not  a  chap,  you  know,  who  really 
cares  for  this  sort  of  thing.  I'm  in  love.  I  suppose 
you  are  too." 

And  Roland,  who  did  not  want  to  be  outdone,  con- 
fessed that  there  was  someone,  "a  girl  he  had  known 
all  his  life." 

"But  you  don't  want  a  girl  you've  known  all  your 
life;  love's  not  a  thing  that  we  drift  into;  it  must  be 
sudden ;  it  must  be  unexpected ;  it  must  hurt." 

Howard  was  a  sore  trial,  and  it  was  with  the  most 
unutterable  relief  that  Roland  learned  that  he  was 
leaving  at  Christmas  to  go  to  a  crammer's. 

"We  must  keep  up  with  one  another,  old  fellow," 
Howard  said  on  their  last  Sunday.  "You  must  come 
and  lunch  with  me  one  day  in  town.  Write  and  tell 
me  all  about  it.  We've  had  some  jolly  times." 

Roland  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  on  the  last  day, 


22  ROLAND  WHATELY 

resplendent  in  an  O.F.  scarf,  very  loud  and  hearty, 
saying  "good-by"  to  people  he  had  hardly  spoken 
to  before.  "You'll  write  to  me,  won't  you,  old  fellow? 
Come  and  lunch  with  me  when  you're  up  in  town. 
The  Regent  Club.  Good-by."  Since  his  first  year, 
when  the  prefect  for  whom  he  had  fagged,  and  by 
whom  he  had  been  beaten  several  times,  had  left, 
Roland  had  never  been  so  heartily  thankful  to  see  any 
member  of  the  school  in  old  boys'  colors. 


CHAPTER  III 

RALPH  AND  APRIL 

RALPH  RICHMOND  was  the  son  of  an  emo- 
tional woman  and  he  had  read  too  many  novels. 
He  took  himself  seriously:  without  being  religious, 
he  considered  that  it  was  the  duty  of  every  man  to 
leave  the  world  better  than  he  found  it.  Such  a 
philosophy  may  be  natural  to  a  man  of  thirty-six 
who  sees  small  prospect  of  realizing  his  own  ambition, 
and  resorts  to  the  consolation  of  a  collective  enthu- 
siasm, but  it  is  abnormal  in  a  boy  of  seventeen,  an 
age  which  usually  sees  itself  in  the  stalls  of  a  theater 
waiting  for  the  curtain  to  rise  and  reveal  a  stage  set 
with  limitless  opportunities  for  self-development  and 
self-indulgence. 

But  Ralph  had  been  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere 
of  ideals ;  at  the  age  of  seven  he  gave  a  performance 
of  Hamlet  in  the  nursery,  and  in  the  same  year  he 
visited  a  lenten  performance  of  Everyman.  At  his 
preparatory  school  he  came  under  the  influence  of 
an  empire  builder,  who  used  to  appeal  to  the  emo- 
tions of  his  form.  "The  future  of  the  country  is  in 
your  hands,"  he  would  say.  "One  day  you  will  be 
at  the  helm.  You  must  prepare  yourselves  for  that 
time.  You  must  never  forget."  And  Ralph  did  not. 
He  thought  of  himself  as  the  arbiter  of  destinies.  He 
felt  that  till  that  day  his  life  must  be  a  vigil.  Like 
the  knights  of  Arthurian  romance,  he  would  watch 

23 


24  ROLAND  WHATELY 

beside  his  armor  in  the  chapel.  In  the  process  he 
became  a  prig,  and  on  his  last  day  at  Rycroft  Lodge 
he  became  a  prude.  His  headmaster  gave  all  the 
boys  who  were  leaving  a  long  and  serious  address  on 
the  various  temptations  of  the  flesh  to  which  they 
would  be  subjected  at  their  Public  Schools.  Ralph 
had  no  clear  idea  of  what  these  temptations  might 
be.  Their  results,  however,  seemed  sufficient  reason 
for  abstention.  If  he  yielded  to  them,  he  gathered 
that  he  would  lose  in  a  short  time  his  powers  of 
thought,  his  strength,  his  moral  stamina;  a  slow  poi- 
son would  devour  him;  in  a  few  years  he  would  be 
mad  and  blind  and  probably,  though  of  this  he  was 
not  quite  certain,  deaf  as  well.  At  any  rate  he 
would  be  in  a  condition  when  the  ability  of  detecting 
sound  would  be  of  slight  value.  These  threats  were 
alarming:  their  effect,  however,  would  not  have  been 
lasting  in  the  case  of  Ralph,  who  was  no  coward  and 
also,  being  no  fool,  would  have  soon  observed  that 
this  process  of  disintegration  was  not  universal  in 
its  application.  No;  it  was  not  the  threat  that  did 
the  damage:  it  was  the  romantic  appeal  of  the  head- 
master's peroration. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  after  a  dramatic  pause,  "how 
can  any  one  of  you  who  has  been  a  filthy  beast  at 
school  dare  to  propose  marriage  to  some  pure,  clean 
woman?" 

That  told ;  that  sentiment  was  within  the  range  of 
his  comprehension;  it  was  a  beautiful  idea,  a  chival- 
rous idea,  worthy,  he  inappropriately  imagined,  of 
Sir  Lancelot.  He  could  understand  that  a  knight 
should  come  to  his  lady  with  glittering  armor  and 
an  unstained  sword.  At  the  time  he  did  not  fully 
appreciate  the  application  of  this  image:  he  soon 
learned,  however,  that  a  night  spent  on  one's  knees 


RALPH  AND  APRIL  25 

on  the  stone  floor  of  a  draughty  chapel  is  a  cold  and 
lonely  prelude  to  enchantment:  a  discovery  that  did 
not  make  him  the  more  charitable  to  those  who  pre- 
ferred clean  linen  and  soft  down. 

It  was  only  to  be  supposed,  therefore,  that  he 
would  receive  Roland's  confidences  with  disgust.  He 
had  always  felt  a  little  jealous  of  April's  obvious  pref- 
erence for  his  friend,  but  he  had  regarded  it  as  the 
fortune  of  war  and  had  taken  what  pleasure  he  might 
in  the  part  of  confidant.  To  this  vicarious  excitant 
their  intimacy  indeed  owed  its  strength.  His  indig- 
nation, therefore,  when  he  learned  of  Roland's  rustic 
courtship  was  only  exceeded  by  his  positive  fury  when, 
on  the  first  evening  of  the  holidays,  he  went  round 
to  see  the  Curtises  and  found  there  Roland  and  his 
father.  It  was  the  height  of  hypocrisy.  He  had 
supposed  that  Roland  would  at  least  have  the  de- 
cency to  keep  away  from  her.  It  had  been  bad 
enough  to  give  up  a  decent  girl  for  a  shop  assistant, 
but  to  come  back  and  carry  on  as  though  nothing 
had  happened.  ...  It  was  monstrous,  cruel,  unthink- 
able. And  there  was  April,  so  clean  and  calm,  with 
her  thick  brown  hair  gathered  up  in  a  loop  across 
her  forehead;  her  eyes,  deep  and  gentle,  with  sub- 
dued colors,  brown  and  a  shade  of  green,  and  that 
delicate  smile  of  simple  trust  and  innocence,  smiling 
at  him,  ignorant  of  how  she  had  been  deceived. 

It  must  be  set  down,  however,  to  Roland's  credit 
that  he  had  felt  a  few  qualms  about  going  round  at 
once  to  see  the  Curtises.  Less  than  twenty-four  hours 
had  passed  since  he  had  held  Dolly's  hand  and  pro- 
tested to  her  an  undying  loyalty.  He  did  not  love 
her;  the  words  meant  nothing,  and  they  both  knew 
it;  they  were  merely  part  of  the  convention  of  the 
game.  Nor  for  that  matter  was  he  in  love  with  April 


26  ROLAND  WHATELY 

— at  least  he  did  not  think  he  was.  He  owed  noth- 
ing to  either  of  them.  But  conscience  told  him  that, 
in  view  of  the  understanding  that  was  supposed  to 
exist  between  them,  it  would  be  more  proper  to  wait 
a  day  or  two.  After  all,  one  did  not  go  to  a  theater 
the  day  after  one's  father's  funeral,  however  eagerly 
one's  imagination  had  anticipated  the  event. 

Things  had,  however,  turned  out  otherwise.  At  a 
quarter  to  six  Mr.  Whately  returned  from  town.  He 
was  the  manager  of  a  bank,  at  a  salary  of  seven  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  a  year,  an  income  that  allowed 
the  family  to  visit  the  theater,  upper  circle  seats,  at 
least  once  every  holidays  and  provided  Roland  with 
as  much  pocket  money  as  he  needed.  Mr.  Whately 
walked  into  the  drawing-room,  greeted  his  son  with 
the  conventional  joke  about  a  holiday  task,  handed 
his  wife  a  copy  of  The  Globe,  sat  down  in  front  of 
the  fire  and  began  to  take  off  his  boots. 

"Nothing  much  in  the  papers  to-day,  my  dear.  Not 
much  happening  anywhere  as  a  matter  of  fact.  I  had 
lunch  to-day  with  Robinson  and  he  called  it  the  lull 
before  the  storm.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  he 
wasn't  right.  You  can't  trust  these  Radicals." 

He  was  a  scrubby  little  man:  for  thirty  years  he 
had  worked  in  the  same  house;  there  had  been  no 
friction  and  no  excitement  in  his  life ;  he  had  by  now 
lost  any  independence  of  thought  and  action. 

"I've  just  found  a  splendid  place,  my  dear,  where 
you  can  get  a  really  first-class  lunch  for  one-and- 
sixpence." 

"Have  you,  dear?" 

"Yes ;  in  Soho,  just  behind  the  Palace.  I  went  there 
to-day  with  Robinson.  We  had  four  courses,  and 
cheese  to  finish  up  with.  Something  like." 

"And  was  it  well  cooked,  dear?" 


RALPH  AND  APRIL  27 

"Rather;  the  plaice  was  beautifully  fried.  Just 
beginning  to  brown." 

His  face  flushed  with  a  genuine  animation.  Change 
of  food  was  the  only  adventure  that  life  brought  to 
him.  He  rose  slowly. 

"Well,  I  must  go  up  and  change,  I  suppose.  I've 
one  or  two  other  things  to  tell  you,  dear,  later  on." 

He  did  not  ask  his  wife  what  she  had  been  doing 
during  the  day;  it  was  indeed  doubtful  whether  he 
appreciated  the  existence  of  any  life  at  105  Ham- 
merton  Villas,  Hammerton,  during  the  hours  when 
he  was  away  from  them.  He  himself  was  the  central 
point. 

Five  minutes  later  he  came  downstairs  in  a  light 
suit. 

"Well,  who's  coming  out  with  me  for  a  constitu- 
tional?" 

Roland  got  up,  walked  into  the  hall,  picked  up  his 
hat  and  stick. 

"Right  you  are,  father;  I'm  ready." 

It  was  the  same  thing  every  day.  At  eight-thirty- 
five  Mr.  Whately  caught  a  bus  at  the  corner  of  the 
High  Street.  He  had  never  been  known  to  miss  it. 
On  the  rare  occasions  when  he  was  a  few  seconds 
late  the  driver  would  wait  till  he  saw  the  panting 
little  figure  come  running  round  the  corner,  trying  to 
look  dignified  in  spite  of  the  top  hat  that  bobbed 
from  one  side  of  his  head  to  the  other.  From  nine 
o'clock  till  a  quarter-past  five  Mr.  Whately  worked 
at  a  desk,  with  an  hour's  interval  for  lunch.  Every 
evening  he  went  for  an  hour's  walk ;  for  half  an  hour 
before  dinner  he  read  the  evening  paper.  After  din- 
ner he  would  play  a  game  of  patience  and  smoke  his 
pipe.  Occasionally  a  friend  would  drop  in  for  a  chat ; 
very  occasionally  he  would  go  out  himself.  At  ten 


28  ROLAND  WHATELY 

o'clock  sharp  he  went  to  bed.  Every  Saturday  after- 
noon he  attended  a  public  performance  of  either  cric- 
ket or  football  according  to  the  season.  Roland  often 
wondered  how  he  could  stand  it.  What  had  he  to  look 
forward  to?  What  did  he  think  about  when  he  sat 
over  the  fire  puffing  at  his  pipe?  And  his  mother. 
How  monotonous  her  life  appeared  to  him.  Yet  she 
seemed  always  happy  enough;  she  never  grumbled. 
Roland  could  not  understand  it.  Whatever  hap- 
pened, he  would  take  jolly  good  care  that  he  never 
ran  into  a  groove  like  that.  They  had  loved  each 
other  well  enough  once,  he  supposed,  but  now — oh, 
well,  love  was  the  privilege  of  youth. 

Father  and  son  walked  in  silence.  They  were  fond 
of  each  other ;  they  liked  being  together ;  Mr.  Whately 
was  very  proud  of  his  son's  achievements;  but  their 
affection  was  never  expressed  in  words.  After  a 
while  they  began  to  talk  of  indifferent  things,  guess- 
ing at  each  other's  thoughts:  a  relationship  of  intui- 
tions. They  passed  along  the  High  Street  and,  turn- 
ing behind  the  shops,  walked  down  a  long  street  of 
small  red  brick  villas  with  stucco  fronts. 

"Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  go  in  and  see  the 
Curtises?"  Mr.  Whately  asked. 

"I  don't  know.    I  hadn't  meant  to.    I  thought  .  .  ." 

"I  think  you  ought  to,  you  know,  your  first  day; 
they'd  be  rather  offended  if  you  didn't.  April  asked 
me  when  you  were  coming  back." 

And  so  Roland  was  bound  to  abandon  his  virtuous 
resolution. 

It  was  not  a  particularly  jolly  evening  before  Ralph 
arrived.  Afterwards  it  was  a  good  deal  worse. 

In  the  old  days,  when  father  and  son  had  paid  an 
evening  visit,  Roland  had  run  straight  up  to  the  nur- 
sery and  enjoyed  himself,  but  now  he  had  to  sit  in 


RALPH  AND  APRIL  29 

the  drawing-room,  which  was  a  very  different  matter. 
He  did  not  like  Mrs.  Curtis;  he  never  had  liked  her, 
but  she  had  not  troubled  him  in  the  days  when  she 
had  been  a  mere  voice  below  the  banisters.  Now  he 
had  to  sit  in  the  small  drawing-room,  with  its  shut 
windows,  and  hear  her  voice  cleave  through  the 
clammy  atmosphere  in  languid,  pathetic  cadences;  a 
sentimental  voice,  and  under  the  sentiment  a  hard, 
cold  cruelty.  Her  person  was  out  of  keeping  with 
her  voice;  it  should  have  been  plump  and  comfort- 
able looking;  instead  it  was  tall,  thin,  angular,  all 
over  points,  like  a  hatrack  in  a  restaurant:  a  ter- 
rible bedfellow.  And  she  talked,  heavens!  how  she 
talked.  It  was  usually  about  her  children. 

"Dear  Arthur,  he's  getting  on  so  well  at  school.  Do 
you  know  what  his  headmaster  said  about  him  in  his 
report?" 

"Oh,  but,  mother,  please,"  Arthur  would  protest. 

"No,  dear,  be  quiet;  I  know  Mr.  Whately  would 
like  to  hear.  The  headmaster  said,  Mr.  Whately  .  .  ." 
Then  it  was  her  daughter's  turn.  "And  April,  too, 
Mr.  Whately,  she's  getting  on  so  well  with  her  draw- 
ing lessons.  Mr.  Hamilton  was  only  saying  to  me 
yesterday  ..." 

It  was  not  surprising  that  Roland  was  less  keen 
now  on  going  round  there.  It  was  little  fun  for  him 
after  all  to  sit  and  listen  while  she  talked,  to  see  his 
father  so  utterly  complacent,  with  his  "Yes,  Mrs. 
Curtis,"  and  his  "Really,  Mrs.  Curtis,"  and  to  look 
at  poor  April  huddled  in  the  window  seat,  so  bored, 
so  ashamed,  her  eyes  meeting  his  with  a  look  that 
said:  "Don't  worry  about  her,  don't  take  any  notice 
of  what  she  says.  I'm  not  like  that."  Once  or  twice 
he  tried  to  talk  to  her,  but  it  was  no  use :  her  mother 
would  interrupt,  would  bring  them  back  into  the  circle 


SO  ROLAND  WHATELY 

of  her  own  egotism.  In  her  own  drawing-room  she 
would  tolerate  nothing  independent  of  herself. 

"Yes,  Roland;  what  was  it  you  were  saying?  The 
Saundersons'  dance?  Of  course  April  will  be  going. 
They're  very  old  friends  of  ours,  the  Saundersons. 
Mr.  Saunderson  thinks  such  a  lot  of  Arthur,  too.  You 
know,  Mr.  Whately,  I  met  him  in  the  High  Street 
the  other  afternoon  and  he  said  to  me,  'How's  that 
clever  son  of  yours  getting  on,  Mrs.  Curtis?' ' 

"Really,  Mrs.  Curtis." 

"Yes,  really,  Mr.  Whately." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Ralph  arrived. 

His  look  of  surprised  displeasure  was  obvious  to 
everyone.  But  knowing  Ralph,  they  mistook  it  for 
awkwardness.  He  did  not  like  company,  and  his 
shyness  was  apparent  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  in 
an  ill-fitting  suit,  with  trousers  that  bagged  at  the 
knees,  and  with  the  front  part  of  his  hair  smarmed 
across  his  forehead  with  one  hurried  sweep  of  a  damp 
brush,  at  right  angles  to  the  rest  of  his  hair,  that  fell 
perpendicularly  from  the  crown  of  his  head. 

"Come  along,  Ralph,"  said  April,  and  made  room 
for  him  in  the  window-seat.  She  treated  him  with  an 
amused  condescension.  He  was  so  clumsy;  a  dear 
fellow,  so  easy  to  rag.  "And  how  did  your  exam,  go?" 
she  asked. 

"All  right." 

'No;  but  really,  tell  me  about  it.  What  were  the 
maths  like?" 

"Not  so  bad." 

"And  the  geography?  You  were  so  nervous  about 
that." 

"I  didn't  do  badly." 

"And  the  Latin  and  the  Greek?  I  want  to  know 
all  about  it." 


RALPH  AND  APRIL  31 

"You  don't,  really?" 

"Yes,  but  I  do." 

"No,  you  don't,"  he  said  impatiently.  "You'd 
much  rather  hear  about  Roland  and  all  the  things  he 
does  at  Fernhurst." 

There  was  a  moment  of  difficult  silence,  then  April 
said  quite  quietly: 

"You  are  quite  right,  Ralph ;  as  a  matter  of  fact  I 
should";  and  she  turned  towards  Roland,  but  before 
she  could  say  anything,  Mrs.  Curtis  once  more  as- 
sumed her  monopoly  of  the  conversation. 

"Yes,  Roland,  you've  told  us  nothing  about  that, 
and  how  you  got  your  firsts.  We  were  so  proud  of 
you,  too.  And  you  never  wrote  to  tell  us.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  your  father  we  should  never  have 
known."  And  for  the  next  half  hour  her  voice  flowed 
on  placidly,  while  Ralph  sat  in  a  frenzy  of  self-pity 
and  self-contempt,  and  Roland  longed  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  kick  him,  and  April  looked  out  between  the 
half-drawn  curtains  towards  the  narrow  line  of  sky 
that  lay  darkly  over  the  long  stretch  of  roofs  and 
chimney-pots,  happy  that  Roland's  holidays  had  be- 
gun, regretting  wistfully  that  childhood  was  finished 
for  them,  that  they  could  no  longer  play  their  own 
games  in  the  nursery,  that  they  had  become  part  of 
the  ambitions  of  their  parents. 

When  at  last  they  rose  to  go,  Ralph  lingered  for  a 
moment  in  the  doorway;  he  could  not  go  home  till 
April  had  forgiven  him. 

She  stood  on  the  top  of  the  step,  looking  down  the 
street  to  Roland,  her  heart  still  beating  a  little  quickly, 
still  disturbed  by  that  pressure  of  the  hand  and  that 
sudden  uncomfortable  meeting  of  the  eyes  when  he 
had  said  "Good-by."  She  did  not  notice  Ralph  till 
he  began  to  speak  to  her. 


32  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"I  am  awfully  sorry  I  was  so  rude  to  you,  April. 
I'm  rather  tired.  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you.  I 
wouldn't  have  done  it  for  worlds." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"Oh,  don't  worry  about  that,"  she  said,  "that's 
nothing." 

And  he  could  see  that  to  her  it  was  indeed  nothing, 
that  she  had  not  thought  twice  about  it,  that  nothing 
he  said  or  did  was  of  the  least  concern  to  her.  He 
would  much  rather  that  she  had  been  angry. 

Next  day  Ralph  came  round  to  the  Whatelys'  soon 
after  breakfast. 

"Well,  feeling  more  peaceful  to-day,  old  friend?" 

Ralph  looked  at  Roland  in  impotent  annoyance.  As 
he  knew  of  old,  Roland  was  an  impossible  person  to 
have  a  row  with.  He  simply  would  not  fight.  He 
either  agreed  to  everything  you  said  or  else  brushed 
away  your  arguments  with  a  good-natured  "All  right, 
old  man,  all  right!"  On  this  occasion,  however,  he 
felt  that  he  must  make  a  stand. 

"You're  the  limit,"  he  said ;  "the  absolute  limit." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  but  I  think  you  were  last 
night." 

"Oh,  don't  joke  about  it.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
I  think  it's  pretty  rotten  for  a  fellow  like  you  to  go 
about  with  a  shop  assistant,  but  that's  not  really  the 
thing.  What's  simply  beastly  is  your  coming  back  to 
April  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  What  would 
she  say  if  she  knew?" 

Roland  refused  to  acknowledge  omniscience.  "I 
don't  know,"  he  said. 

"She  wouldn't  be  pleased,  would  she?"  Ralph  per- 
sisted. 

"I  don't  suppose  so." 


RALPH  AND  APRIL  33 

"No;  well  then,  there  you  are;  you  oughtn't  to  do 
anything  you  think  she  mightn't  like." 

Roland  looked  at  him  with  a  sad  patience,  as  a  pre- 
paratory schoolmaster  at  a  refractory  infant. 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  we're  not  married,  and  we're 
not  engaged.  Surely  we  can  do  more  or  less  what  we 
like." 

"But  would  you  be  pleased  if  you  learned  that  she'd 
been  carrying  on  with  someone  else?" 

Roland  admitted  that  he  would  not. 

"Then  why  should  you  think  you  owe  nothing  to 
her?" 

"It's  different,  my  dear  Ralph;  it's  really  quite 
different." 

"No,  it  isn't." 

"Yes,  it  is.  Boys  can  do  things  that  girls  can't.  A 
flirtation  means  very  little  to  a  boy ;  it  means  a  good 
deal  to  a  girl — at  least  it  ought  to.  If  it  doesn't,  it 
means  that  she's  had  too  much  of  it." 

"But  I  don't  see "  began  Ralph. 

"Come  on,  come  on;  don't  let's  go  all  over  that 
again.  We  shall  never  agree.  Let  me  go  my  way  and 
you  can  go  yours.  We  are  too  old  friends  to  quarrel 
about  a  thing  like  this." 

Most  boys  would  have  been  annoyed  by  Ralph's 
attempt  at  interference,  but  it  took  a  great  deal  to 
ruffle  Roland's  lazy,  equable  good  nature.  He  did  not 
believe  in  rows.  He  liked  to  keep  things  running 
smoothly.  He  could  never  understand  the  people  who 
were  always  wanting  to  stir  up  trouble.  He  did  not 
really  care  enough  either  way.  His  tolerance  might 
have  been  called  indifference,  but  it  possessed,  at  any 
rate,  a  genuine  charm.  The  other  fellow  always  felt 
what  a  thundering  good  chap  Roland  was — so  good- 
tempered,  such  a  gentleman,  never  harboring  a  griev- 


34  ROLAND  WHATELY 

ance.  People  knew  where  they  were  with  him ;  when 
he  said  a  thing  was  over  it  was  over. 

"All  right,"  said  Ralph  grudgingly.  "I  don't  know 
that  it's  quite  the  game " 

"Don't  worry.  We're  a  long  way  from  anything 
serious.  A  good  deal's  got  to  happen  before  we're 
come  to  the  age  when  we  can't  do  what  we  like." 

And  they  talked  of  other  things. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  KISS 

APRIL  sat  for  a  long  while  before  the  looking- 
glass  wondering  whether  to  tie  a  blue  or  a  white 
ribbon  in  her  hair.  She  tried  one  and  then  the  other 
and  paused  irresolute.  It  was  the  evening  of  the 
Saundersons'  dance,  to  which  for  weeks  she  had  been 
looking  forward,  and  she  was  desperately  anxious  to 
look  pretty.  It  would  be  a  big  affair:  ices  and  claret 
cup  and  a  band,  and  Roland  would  be  there.  They 
had  seen  a  lot  of  each  other  during  the  holidays — 
nearly  every  day.  Often  they  had  felt  awkward  in 
each  other's  company;  there  had  been  embarrassing 
silences,  when  their  eyes  would  meet  suddenly  and 
quickly  turn  away;  and  then  there  would  come  an  un- 
expected interlude  of  calm,  harmonious  friendship, 
when  they  would  talk  openly  and  naturally  to  each 
other  and  would  sit  afterwards  for  a  long  while  silent, 
softened  and  tranquilized  by  the  presence  of  some 
unknown  influence — moments  of  rare  gentleness  and 
sympathy.  April  could  not  help  feeling  that  they 
were  on  the  edge  of  something  definite,  some  incident 
of  avowal.  She  did  not  know  what,  but  she  felt  that 
something  was  about  to  happen.  She  was  flustered 
and  expectant  and  eager  to  look  pretty  for  Roland 
on  this  great  evening. 

She  had  chosen  a  very  simple  dress,  a  white  muslin 
frock,  that  left  bare  her  arms  and  throat,  and  was 

35 


36  ROLAND  WHATELY 

trimmed  with  pale  blue  ribbon  at  the  neck  and  elbow ; 
her  stockings,  too,  were  white,  but  her  shoes  and  her 
sash  a  vivid,  unexpected  scarlet.  She  turned  round 
slowly  before  the  glass  and  smiled  happily  at  her 
clear,  fresh  girlhood,  tossing  back  her  head,  so  that 
her  hair  was  shaken  out  over  her  shoulders.  Surely 
he  would  think  her  beautiful  to-night.  With  eager 
fingers  she  tied  the  blue  ribbon  in  her  hair,  turned 
again  slowly  before  the  glass,  smiled,  shook  out  her 
hair,  and  laughed  happily.  Yes,  she  would  wear  the 
blue — a  subdued,  quiet  color,  that  faded  naturally 
into  the  warm  brown.  She  ran  downstairs  for  her 
family's  approval,  stood  before  her  mother  and  turned 
a  slow  circle. 

"Well,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Curtis  examined  her  critically. 

"Of  course,  dear,  I'm  quite  certain  that  you'll  be 
the  prettiest  girl  there  whatever  you  wear." 

"What  do  you  mean,  mother?" 

"Well,  April  dear,  of  course  I  know  you  think  you 
know  best,  but  that  white  frock — it  is  so  very  simple." 

"But  simple  things  suit  me,  mother." 

"I  know  they  do,  dear;  you  look  sweet  in  anything; 
but  at  a  big  dance  like  this,  where  there'll  be  so  many 
smart  people,  they  might  think — well,  I  don't  know, 
dear,  but  it  is  very  quiet,  isn't  it?" 

The  moment  before  April  had  been  happy  and 
excited,  and  now  she  was  crushed  and  humiliated. 
She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  gazing  with  pa- 
thetic pity  at  her  brilliant  shoes. 

"You've  spoilt  it  all,"  she  said. 

"No,  dear.  I'm  sure  you'll  be  thankful  to  me  when 
you  get  there.  Now,  why  don't  you  run  upstairs  and 
put  on  that  nice  mauve  frock  of  yours?" 

April  shook  her  shoulders. 


A  KISS  37 

"I  don't  like  mauve." 

"Well  then,  dear,  there's  the  green  and  yellow;  you 
always  look  nice  in  that." 

It  was  a  bright  affair  that  her  mother  had  seen  at 
a  sale  in  Brixton  and  bought  at  once  because  it  was 
so  cheap.  It  had  never  really  suited  April,  whose  deli- 
cate features  needed  a  simple  setting;  but  her  mother 
did  not  like  to  feel  that  she  had  made  a  mistake,  and 
having  persuaded  herself  that  the  green  and  yellow 
was  the  right  color,  and  matched  her  daughter's  eyes, 
had  insisted  on  April's  wearing  it  as  often  as  possible. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  the  green  and  yellow.  I'm  sure  I'm 
right.  Now  hurry  up;  the  cab  will  be  here  in  ten 
minutes." 

April  walked  upstairs  slowly.  She  hated  that  green 
and  yellow;  she  always  had  hated  it.  She  took  it 
down  from  the  wardrobe  and,  holding  the  ends  of  the 
sleeves,  stretched  out  her  arms  on  either  side  so  that 
the  green  and  yellow  dress  covered  her  completely, 
and  then  she  stood  looking  at  it  in  the  glass. 

How  blatant,  how  decorative  it  was,  with  its  bows 
and  ribbons  and  slashed  sleeves.  There  were  some 
girls  whom  it  would  suit — big  girls  with  high  com- 
plexions and  full  figures.  But  it  wasn't  her  dress; 
it  spoilt  her.  She  let  it  slip  from  her  fingers;  it  fell 
rustling  to  the  floor,  and  once  again  the  glass  reflected 
her  in  a  plain  white  frock,  and  once  again  she  tossed 
back  her  head,  and  once  again  the  slow  smile  of  satis- 
faction played  across  her  lips.  And  as  she  stood  there 
with  outstretched  arms,  for  one  inspired  moment  of 
revelation,  during  which  the  beating  of  her  heart  was 
stilled,  she  saw  how  beautiful  she  would  one  day  be 
to  the  man  for  whom  with  such  a  gesture  she  would 
be  delivered  to  his  love.  A  deep  flush  colored  her 
neck  and  face,  a  flush  of  triumphant  pride,  of  waken- 


38  ROLAND  WHATELY 

ing  womanhood.  Then  with  a  quick,  impatient  move- 
ment of  her  scarlet  shoes  she  kicked  the  yellow  dress 
away  from  her. 

Why  should  she  wear  it?  She  dressed  to  please 
herself  and  not  her  mother.  She  knew  best  what 
suited  her.  What  would  happen  if  she  disobeyed 
her?  Would  anyone  ever  know?  She  could  manage 
to  slip  out  when  no  one  was  looking.  Annie  would 
be  sent  to  fetch  her,  but  they  would  come  back  after 
everyone  had  gone  to  bed. 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  and  toyed  with  the 
thought  of  rebellion.  It  would  be  horribly  exciting. 
It  would  be  the  naughtiest  thing  she  had  done  in  her 
life.  She  had  never  yet  disobeyed  deliberately  any- 
one who  had  authority  over  her.  She  had  lost  her 
temper  in  the  nursery;  she  had  been  insolent  to  her 
nurses ;  she  had  pretended  not  to  hear  when  she  had 
been  called;  but  never  this:  never  had  she  sat  down 
and  decided  in  cold  blood  to  disregard  authority. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Yes.    Who's  that?" 

"It's  only  me — mother.    Can  I  help  you,  dear?" 

"No,  thank  you,  mother;  I'm  all  right." 

"Quite  sure?" 

"Quite." 

April  heard  her  mother  slowly  descend  the  stairs, 
then  heaved  a  sigh  of  half-proud,  half-guilty  relief. 
She  was  glad  she  had  managed  to  get  out  of  it  with- 
out actually  telling  a  lie.  She  sat  still  and  waited, 
till  at  last  she  heard  the  crunch  of  a  cab  drawing  up 
outside  the  house.  She  wrapped  herself  tightly  in 
her  coat,  tiptoed  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  listened. 
She  could  hear  her  mother's  voice  in  the  passage. 
Quietly  she  stole  out  on  to  the  landing,  quietly  ran 
downstairs  and  across  the  hall,  fumbled  for  the  door 


A  KISS  39 

handle,  found  it,  turned  it,  and  pulled  it  quickly 
behind  her.  It  was  done;  she  was  free.  As  she  ran 
down  the  steps  she  heard  a  window  open  behind  her 
and  her  mother's  voice: 

"Who's  that?  What  is  it?  Oh,  you,  April.  You 
might  have  come  to  see  me  before  you  went.  A  happy 
evening  to  you." 

April  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak ;  she  ran  down 
the  steps,  jumped  into  the  cab  and  sank  back  into 
the  corner  of  the  cushioned  seat.  Her  breath  came 
quickly  and  unevenly,  her  breasts  heaved  and  fell. 
She  could  have  almost  cried  with  excitement. 

It  had  been  worth  it,  though.  She  knew  that  be- 
yond doubt  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  when  she 
walked  into  the  ballroom  and  saw  the  look  of  sudden 
admiration  that  came  into  Roland's  eyes  when  he  saw 
her  for  the  first  time  across  the  room.  He  came 
straight  over  to  her. 

"How  many  dances  may  I  have?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  there's  No.  11." 

"No.  11?    Let  me  have  a  look  at  your  card." 

"No,  of  course  you  mustn't." 

"Yes,  of  course.  Why,  I  don't  believe  you  have 
got  one!" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  she  said,  and  held  it  up  to  him.  In 
a  second  it  was  in  his  hand,  as  indeed  she  had  in- 
tended that  it  should  be. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Roland,  "as  far  as  I  can  see 
you've  got  only  Nos.  6,  7,  14  and  15  engaged;  that 
leaves  fourteen  for  me." 

"Well,  you  can  have  the  four,"  she  laughed. 

In  the  end  she  gave  him  six.  "And  if  I've  any 
over  you  shall  have  them,"  she  promised. 

"Well  you  know  there  won't  be,"  and  their  eyes 
met  in  a  moment  of  quiet  intimacy. 


40  ROLAND  WHATELY 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone  other  partners  crowded 
round  her.  In  a  very  short  while  her  program  was 
filled  right  up,  the  five  extras  as  well.  She  had  left 
No.  17  vacant;  it  was  the  last  waltz.  She  felt  that 
she  might  like  Roland  to  have  it,  but  was  not  sure. 
She  didn't  quite  know  why,  but  she  felt  she  would 
leave  it  open. 

It  was  a  splendid  dance.  As  the  evening  passed,  her 
face  flushed  and  her  eyes  brightened,  and  it  was  de- 
lightful to  slip  from  the  heat  of  the  ballroom  on  to 
the  wide  balcony  and  feel  the  cool  of  the  air  on  her 
bare  arms.  She  danced  once  with  Ralph,  and  as  they 
sat  out  afterwards  she  could  almost  feel  the  touch  of 
his  eyes  on  her.  Poor  Ralph ;  he  was  so  clumsy.  How 
absurd  it  was  of  him  to  be  in  love  with  her.  As  if 
she  could  ever  care  for  him.  She  felt  no  pity.  She 
accepted  his  admiration  as  a  queen  accepts  a  sub- 
ject's loyalty;  it  was  the  right  due  to  her  beauty,  to 
the  eager  flow  of  life  that  sustained  her  on  this  night 
of  triumph. 

And  every  dance  with  Roland  seemed  to  bring  her 
nearer  to  the  wonderful  moment  to  which  she  had  so 
long  looked  forward.  When  she  was  dancing  with 
Ralph,  Roland's  eyes  would  follow  her  all  round  the 
room,  smiling  when  they  met  hers.  And  when  they 
danced  together  they  seemed  to  share  a  secret  with 
one  another,  a  secret  still  unrevealed. 

Through  the  languid  ecstasy  of  a  waltz  the  words 
that  he  murmured  into  her  ear  had  no  relation  with 
their  accepted  sense.  He  was  not  repeating  a  piece  of 
trivial  gossip,  a  pun,  a  story  he  had  heard  at  school  ; 
he  was  wooing  her  in  their  own  way,  in  their  own 
time.  And  afterwards  as  they  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
balcony,  looking  out  over  the  roofs  and  the  lights  of 
London,  she  began  to  tell  him  about  her  dress  and  the 


A  KISS  41 

trouble  that  she  had  had  with  her  mother.  "She  said 
I  ought  to  wear  a  horrid  thing  with  yellow  and  green 
stripes  that  doesn't  suit  me  in  the  least.  And  I 
wouldn't.  I  stole  out  of  the  house  when  she  wasn't 
looking." 

"You  look  wonderful  to-night,"  he  said. 

He  leaned  forward  and  their  hands  touched ;  his  lit- 
tle finger  intertwined  itself  round  hers.  She  felt  his 
warm  breath  upon  her  face. 

"Do  I?"  she  whispered.    "It's  all  for  you." 

In  another  moment  he  would  have  taken  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  she  would  have  re- 
sponded naturally.  They  had  reached  that  moment 
to  which  the  course  of  the  courtship  had  tended,  that 
point  when  a  kiss  is  involuntary,  that  point  that  can 
never  come  again.  But  just  as  his  hands  stretched 
out  to  her  the  band  struck  up ;  he  rested  his  hand  on 
hers  and  pressed  it. 

"We  shall  have  to  go,"  he  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"But  the  next  but  one." 

"No.  16." 

But  the  magic  of  that  one  moment  had  passed ;  they 
had  left  behind  them  the  possibility  of  spontaneous 
action.  They  were  no  longer  part  of  the  natural 
rhythm  of  their  courtship.  All  through  the  next 
dance  he  kept  saying  to  himself:  "I  shall  have  to  kiss 
her  the  next  time.  I  shall.  I  know  I  shall.  I  must 
pull  myself  together."  He  felt  puzzled,  frightened 
and  excited,  so  that  when  the  time  came  he  was  both 
nervous  and  self-conscious.  The  magic  had  gone,  yet 
each  felt  that  something  was  expected  of  them. 
Roland  tried  to  pull  himself  together ;  to  remind  him- 
self that  if  he  didn't  kiss  her  now  she  would  never 
forgive  him;  that  there  was  nothing  in  it;  that  he 


42  ROLAND  WHATELY 

had  kissed  Dolly  a  hundred  times  and  thought  noth- 
ing of  it.  But  it  was  not  the  same  thing;  that  was 
shallow  and  trivial;  this  was  genuine;  real  emotion 
was  at  stake.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do.  As  they 
sat  out  after  the  dance  he  tried  to  make  a  bet  with 
himself,  to  say,  "I'll  count  ten  and  then  I'll  do  it." 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  hers,  and  it  lay  in  his 
limp  and  uninspired. 

"April,"  he  whispered,  "April." 

She  turned  her  head  from  him.  He  leaned  forward, 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  kissed  her  awkwardly 
upon  the  neck.  She  did  not  move.  He  felt  he  must 
do  something.  He  put  his  arm  round  her,  trying  to 
turn  her  face  to  his,  but  she  pulled  away  from  him. 
He  tried  to  kiss  her,  and  his  chin  scratched  the  soft 
skin  of  her  cheek,  his  nose  struck  hers,  her  mouth  half 
opened,  and  her  teeth  jarred  against  his  lips.  It  was 
a  failure,  a  dismal  failure. 

She  pushed  him  away  angrily. 

"Go  away!  go  away!"  she  said.  "What  are  you 
doing?  What  do  you  mean  by  it?  I  hate  you;  go 
away!" 

All  the  excitement  of  the  evening  turned  into  vio- 
lent hatred;  she  was  half  hysterical.  She  had  been 
worked  up  to  a  point,  and  had  been  let  down.  She 
was  not  angry  with  him  because  he  had  tried  to  kiss 
her,  but  because  he  had  chosen  the  wrong  moment, 
because  he  had  failed  to  move  her. 

"But,  April,  I'm  sorry,  April." 

"Oh,  go  away;  leave  me  alone,  leave  me  alone." 

"But,  April."  He  put  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  and 
she  swung  round  upon  him  fiercely. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  wanted  to  be  left  alone?  I 
don't  know  how  you  dared.  Do  leave  me." 

She  walked  quickly  past  him  into  the  ballroom,  and 


A  KISS  43 

seeing  Ralph  at  the  far  end  of  it  went  up  and  asked 
him,  to  that  young  gentleman's  exhilarated  amaze- 
ment, whether  he  was  free  for  No.  17,  and  if  he  was 
whether  he  would  like  to  dance  it  with  her.  She 
wore  a  brave  smile  through  the  rest  of  the  evening 
and  danced  all  her  five  extras. 

But  when  she  was  home  again,  had  climbed  the 
silent  stairs,  and  turning  up  the  light  in  her  bedroom 
saw,  lying  on  the  floor,  the  discarded  green  and  yel- 
low dress,  she  broke  down,  and  flinging  herself  upon 
the  bed  sobbed  long  and  bitterly.  She  was  not  angry 
with  Roland,  nor  her  mother,  nor  even  with  herself, 
but  with  life,  with  that  cruel  force  that  had  filled 
her  with  such  eager,  boundless  expectation,  only  in 
the  end  to  fling  her  down,  to  trample  on  her  happi- 
ness, to  mock  her  disenchantment.  Never  as  long 
as  she  lived  would  she  forget  the  shame,  the  unspeak- 
able shame,  and  degradation  of  that  evening. 


CHAPTER   V 

A  POTENTIAL  DIPLOMAT 

ROLAND  returned  to  school  with  the  uncomfort- 
able feeling  that  he  had  not  made  the  most  of 
his  holidays.  He  had  failed  with  April;  he  had  not 
been  on  the  best  of  terms  with  Ralph;  and  he  had 
found  the  last  week  or  so — after  the  Saundersons' 
dance — a  little  tedious.  He  was  never  sorry  to  go 
back  to  school;  on  this  occasion  he  was  positively 
glad. 

In  many  ways  the  Easter  term  was  the  best  of  the 
three;  it  was  agreeably  short;  there  were  the  house 
matches,  the  steeplechases,  the  sports  and  then,  at  the 
end  of  it,  spring;  those  wonderful  mornings  at  the  end 
of  March  when  one  awoke  to  see  the  courts  vivid  with 
sunshine,  the  lindens  trembling  on  the  verge  of  green ; 
when  one  thought  of  the  summer  and  cricket  and 
bathing  and  the  long,  cool  evenings.  And  as  Howard 
had  now  left,  there  was  nothing  to  molest  his  enjoy- 
ment of  these  good  things. 

He  decided,  after  careful  deliberation,  to  keep  it  up 
with  Dolly.  There  had  been  moments  during  the 
holidays  when  he  had  sworn  to  break  with  her;  it 
would  be  quite  easy  now  that  Howard  had  left.  And 
often  during  an  afternoon  in  April's  company  the  idea 
of  embracing  Dolly  had  been  repulsive  to  him.  But 
he  had  been  piqued  by  April's  behavior  at  the  dance, 
and  his  conduct  was  not  ordered  by  a  carefully- 

44 


A  POTENTIAL  DIPLOMAT  45 

thought-out  code  of  morals.  He  responded  to  the 
atmosphere  of  the  moment;  his  emotion,  while  the 
moment  that  inspired  it  lasted,  was  sincere. 

And  so  every  Sunday  afternoon  he  used  to  bicycle 
out  towards  Yeovil  and  meet  Dolly  on  the  edge  of  a 
little  wood.  They  would  wheel  their  machines  inside 
and  sit  together  in  the  shelter  of  the  hedge.  They  did 
not  talk  much;  there  was  not  much  for  them  to  dis- 
cuss. But  she  would  take  off  her  hat  and  lean  her 
head  against  his  shoulder  and  let  him  kiss  her  as  much 
as  he  wanted.  She  was  not  responsive,  but  then 
Roland  hardly  expected  it.  His  small  experience  of 
the  one-sided  romances  of  school  life  had  led  him  to 
believe  that  love  was  a  thing  of  male  desire  and  gra- 
cious, womanly  compliance.  He  never  thought  that 
anyone  would  want  to  kiss  him.  He  would  look  at  his 
reflection  in  the  glass  and  marvel  at  the  inelegance  of 
his  features — an  ordinary  face  with  ordinary  eyes, 
ordinary  nose,  ordinary  mouth.  Of  his  hair  certainly 
he  was  proud;  it  was  a  triumph.  But  he  doubted 
whether  Dolly  appreciated  the  care  with  which  he 
had  trained  it  to  lie  back  from  his  forehead  in  one 
immaculate  wave.  She  had,  indeed,  asked  him  to 
give  up  brilliantine. 

"It's  so  hard  and  smarmy,"  she  complained;  "I 
can't  run  my  fingers  through  it." 

The  one  good  point  about  him  was  certainly  lost  on 
Dolly.  He  wondered  whether  April  liked  it.  April 
and  Dolly !  It  was  hard  to  think  of  the  two  together. 
What  would  April  say  if  she  were  to  hear  about  Dolly? 
It  was  the  theme  Ralph  was  always  driving  at  him 
like  a  nail,  with  heavy,  ponderous  blows.  An  interest- 
ing point.  What  would  April  say?  He  considered 
the  question,  not  as  a  possible  criticism  of  his  own 
conduct,  but  as  the  material  for  an  intriguing,  dra- 


46  ROLAND  WHATELY 

matic  situation.  It  would  be  hard  to  make  her  see  the 
difference.  "I'm  a  girl  and  she's  a  girl  and  you  want 
to  kiss  us  both."  That  was  how  she  would  look  at  it, 
probably — so  illogical.  One  might  as  well  say  that 
water  was  the  same  thing  and  had  the  same  effect  as 
champagne.  Ridiculous!  But  it  would  be  hard  to 
make  April  see  it. 

And  there  was  a  difference,  big  difference;  he  felt 
it  before  a  fortnight  of  the  new  term  had  passed.  In 
spite  of  the  kisses  he  was  never  moved  by  Dolly's 
presence  as  he  was  by  April's.  His  blood  was  calm 
— calmer,  far  calmer,  than  it  had  been  last  term.  He 
never  felt  now  that  excitement,  that  dryness  of  the 
throat  that  used  to  assail  him  in  morning  chapel 
towards  the  end  of  the  Litany.  Something  had 
passed,  and  it  was  not  solely  April,  though,  no  doubt, 
she  had  formed  a  standard  in  his  mind  and  had  her 
share  in  this  disenchantment.  It  was  more  than  that. 
In  a  subtle  way,  although  he  had  hardly  exchanged  a 
dozen  words  with  her  in  his  life,  he  missed  Betty. 
He  had  enjoyed  more  than  he  had  realized  at  the  time 
those  moments  of  meeting  and  parting,  when  the  four 
of  them  had  stood  together,  awkward,  embarrassed, 
waiting  for  someone  to  suggest  a  separation.  It  had 
always  been  Betty  who  had  done  it,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head :  "Come  on,  Dolly,  time  to  be  getting  on" ; 
or  else:  "Now,  then,  Dolly,  isn't  it  time  you  were 
taking  your  Roland  away  with  you?"  And  what  a 
provocative,  infinitely  suggestive  charm  that  slow 
smile  of  hers  had  held  for  him.  The  thrill  of  it  had 
borne  him  triumphantly  over  the  preliminaries  of 
courtship.  He  missed  it  now,  and  often  he  found 
himself  talking  of  her  to  Dolly. 

"Did  she  really  like  Howard?"  he  asked  her  once. 

"Yes,  I  think  so ;  in  fact,  I  know  she  did.    Though 


A  POTENTIAL  DIPLOMAT  47 

I  couldn't  see  what  she  saw  in  him  myself.  I  suppose 
there  was  something  about  him.  She  misses  him 
quite  a  lot,  so  she  says." 

This  statement  Roland  considered  an  excellent  cue 
for  an  exchange  of  gallantries. 

"But  wouldn't  you  miss  me  if  I  went?" 

Dolly,  however,  was  greatly  interested  in  her  cwn 
subject. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  "she  seems  really  worried. 
Only  the  other  day  she  said  to  me:  'Dolly,  I  can't 
get  on  without  that  boy.  There's  nothing  to  look 
forward  to  of  a  Sunday  now,  and  I  get  so  tired  of  my 
work.'  And  when  I  said  to  her:  'But,  my  dear 
Betty,  there's  hundreds  more  fish  in  the  sea.  What 
about  young  Rogers  at  the  post  office?'  she  answers: 
'Oh,  him!  my  boy's  spoilt  me  for  all  that.  I  can't 
bear  the  sight  of  young  Rogers  any  more.'  Funny, 
isn't  it?" 

Roland  agreed  with  her.    To  him  it  was  amazing. 

"Well,"  Dolly  went  on,  "I  saw  quite  clearly  that 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  that  she  must  get  hold 
of  another  young  chap  like  your  friend.  And  I  asked 
her  if  there  was  anyone  else  up  at  the  school  she 
fancied,  and  she  said,  yes,  there  was;  a  boy  she's 
seen  you  talking  to  once  or  twice ;  a  young,  fair-haired 
fellow  with  a  blue  and  yellow  hat  ribbon.  That's  the 
best  I  can  do.  Is  that  any  help  to  you?  Would  you 
know  him?" 

A  blue  and  yellow  hat  ribbon  limited  the  selection 
to  members  of  the  School  XL,  and  there  was  only  one 
old  color  who  answered  to  that  description— 
Brewster  in  Carus  Evans'. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  him." 

"Well,  now,  don't  you  think  you  could  arrange  it? 
Do,  for  my  sake." 


48  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"But  I  don't  know  him  well  enough.  I  don't  see 
how  I  could." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do.  Haven't  I  seen  you  talking 
together,  and  he  would  be  only  too  pleased.  I  am 
sure  he  would.  Betty's  such  a  nice  girl.  Now,  do 
try." 

Roland  promised  that  he  would  do  his  best, 
though  it  was  not  a  job  he  particularly  fancied. 
Brewster  was  the  youngest  member  of  the  XI.  He 
had  been  playing  on  lower  side  games  all  the  season 
without  attracting  any  attention  and  had  then  sur- 
prised everyone  by  making  a  century  in  an  important 
house  match.  He  was  immediately  transplanted  to 
the  first,  and  though  he  played  in  only  two  matches 
he  was  considered  to  have  earned  his  colors.  He  was 
not,  however,  in  any  sense  of  the  word  a  blood.  He 
was  hardly  known  by  men  of  Roland's  standing  in 
other  houses.  He  was  low  in  form  and  not  particu- 
larly brilliant  at  football.  Roland  knew  next  to  noth- 
ing about  him.  Still  it  was  a  fascinating  situation — 
a  girl  like  Betty,  who  must  be  a  good  three  years  older 
than  Dolly,  getting  keen  on  such  a  kid.  Was  she  in 
love,  he  wondered.  He  had  never  met  anyone  who 
had  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  having  a  girl  in  love  with 
him.  For  towards  the  end  he  had  believed  very  little 
of  all  that  Howard  had  told  him.  This  was  dis- 
tinctly an  intriguing  affair.  And  so  he  set  himself 
to  his  task. 

The  difficulty,  of  course,  was  to  find  the  auspicious 
moment.  He  hardly  ever  saw  Brewster  except  when 
there  were  a  lot  of  other  people  about,  and  he  didn't 
want  to  ask  him  across  to  his  study.  People  would 
talk;  and,  besides,  it  would  not  do  to  spring  this 
business  on  him  suddenly.  He  would  have  to  lead 
up  to  it  carefully.  For  a  whole  week  he  sought,  un- 


A  POTENTIAL  DIPLOMAT  49 

successfully,  for  an  opportunity,  and  on  the  Sunday 
he  had  to  confess  to  Dolly  that  he  was  no  nearer  the 
attainment  of  her  friend's  desires. 

"It's  not  as  easy  as  you  seem  to  think  it  is.  We  are 
not  in  the  same  house,  we  are  not  in  the  same  form, 
and  we  don't  play  footer  on  the  same  ground.  In 
fact,  except  that  we  happen  to  be  in  the  same 
school " 

"Now!  now!  now!  Haven't  I  seen  you  talking  to 
him  alone  twice  before  I  even  mentioned  him  to  you? 
And  if  you  could  be  alone  with  him  then,  when  you 
had  no  particular  reason  to,  surely  you  can  manage 
to  be  now,  when  you  have." 

"But,  my  dear  Dolly " 

"There've  not  got  to  be  any  buts.  Either  you  bring 
along  your  friend  or  it's  all  over  between  us." 

It  was  not  a  very  serious  threat,  and  at  any  other 
stage  of  their  relationship  Roland,  considering  the 
bother  that  the  affair  involved,  might  have  been  glad 
enough  to  accept  it  as  an  excuse  for  his  dismissal. 
But  he  had  determined  to  bring  this  thing  off.  He 
thought  of  Betty,  large,  black-haired,  bright-eyed, 
highly  colored,  her  full  lips  moistened  by  the  red 
tongue  that  slipped  continually  between  them,  and 
Brewster,  fair-haired  and  slim  and  shy.  It  would  be 
amusing  to  see  what  they  would  make  of  one  another. 
He  would  carry  the  business  through,  and  as  a  reward 
for  this  determination  luck,  two  days  later,  came  his 
way.  He  drew  Brewster  in  the  second  round  of  the 
Open  Fives. 

On  the  first  wet  day  they  played  it  off,  and  as 
Roland  was  a  poor  performer  and  Brewster  a  toler- 
ably efficient  one  the  game  ended  in  under  half  an 
hour.  They  had,  therefore,  the  whole  afternoon  be- 
fore them,  and  Roland  suggested  that  as  soon  as  they 


50  ROLAND  WHATELY 

had  changed  they  should  have  tea  together  in  his 
study. 

For  Roland  it  was  an  exciting  afternoon;  he  was 
playing,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the  part  of  a 
diplomat.  He  had  read  a  good  many  novels  in  which 
the  motive  was  introduced,  but  there  it  had  been  a 
very  different  matter.  The  stage  had  been  set  skill- 
fully; each  knew  the  other's  thoughts  without  being 
sure  of  his  intention ;  there  was  a  rapier  duel  of  thrust 
and  parry.  But  here  the  stage  was  set  for  nothing  in 
particular.  Brewster  was  unaware  of  dramatic  ten- 
sion ;  his  main  idea  was  to  eat  as  much  as  possible. 

With  infinite  care  Roland  led  the  conversation  to  a 
discussion  of  the  mentality  of  women.  He  enlarged 
on  a  favorite  theme  of  his — the  fact  that  girls  often 
fell  in  love  with  really  ugly  men.  "I  can't  understand 
it/'  he  said.  "Girls  are  such  delicate,  refined  crea- 
tures. They  want  the  right  colored  curtains  in  their 
bedrooms  and  the  right  colored  cushion  for  their 
sofas;  they  spend  hours  discussing  the  right  shade  of 
ribbon  for  their  hair,  and  then  they  go  and  fall  in  love 
with  a  ridiculous-looking  man.  Look  at  Morgan, 
now.  He's  plain  and  he's  bald  and  he's  got  an  absurd, 
stubby  mustache,  and  yet  his  wife  is  frightfully 
pretty,  and  she  seems  really  keen  on  him.  I  don't 
understand  it." 

Brewster  agreed  that  it  was  curious,  and  helped 
himself  to  another  cake. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Roland,  "that  a  fellow  like  you 
knows  a  good  deal  about  girls?" 

Brewster  shook  his  head.  The  subject  presented 
few  attractions  to  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  don't  really  know  anything  at  all 
about  them.  I  haven't  got  a  sister." 

"But  you  don't  learn  about  girls  from  your  sister." 


A  POTENTIAL  DIPLOMAT  51 

"Perhaps  not.  But  if  you  haven't  got  a  sister  you 
don't  run  much  chance  of  seeing  anyone  else's.  We 
don't  know  any  decent  ones.  A  few  of  my  friends 
have  sisters,  but  they  seem  pretty  fair  asses.  I  keep 
out  of  their  way." 

"That's  rather  funny,  you  know,  because  you're 
the  sort  of  fellow  that  girls  run  after." 

As  Roland  had  been  discussing  for  some  time  the 
ugliness  of  the  type  of  man  that  appealed  most  to 
girls,  this  was  hardly  a  compliment.  Brewster  did 
not  notice  it,  however.  Indeed,  he  evinced  no  great 
interest  in  the  conversation.  He  was  enjoying  his  tea. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  I  am,"  he  said.  "At  any  rate 
none  of  them  have  run  after  me,  so  far." 

"That's  all  you  know,"  said  Roland,  and  his  voice 
assumed  a  tone  that  made  Brewster  look  up  quickly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I  know  someone  who  is  doing  their  best  to." 

Brewster  flushed;  the  hand  that  was  carrying  a 
cream  cake  to  his  mouth  paused  in  mid  air. 

"A  girl!     Who?" 

"That's  asking." 

Roland  had  at  last  succeeded  in  arousing  Brewster's 
curiosity,  and  he  was  wise  enough  to  refrain  from  sat- 
isfying it  at  once.  If  he  were  to  tell  him  that  a  girl 
down  town  had  wanted  to  go  for  a  walk  with  him, 
Brewster  would  have  laughed  and  probably  thought 
no  more  about  it.  He  would  have  to  fan  his  interest 
till  Brewster's  imagination  had  had  time  to  play  upon 
the  idea. 

"She's  very  pretty,"  Roland  said,  "and  she  asked 
me  who  you  were.  She  was  awfully  keen  to  meet  you, 
but  I  told  her  that  it  was  no  good  and  that  you 
wouldn't  care  for  that  sort  of  thing.  She  was  very 
disappointed." 


52  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Yes,  but  who  is  she?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  that.  Why  should  I  give 
her  away?" 

"Oh,  but  do  tell  me." 

Roland  was  firm. 

"No;  I'm  jolly  well  not  going  to.  It's  her  secret. 
You  don't  want  to  meet  her,  do  you?" 

"No,"  Brewster  grudgingly  admitted ;  "but  I'd  like 
to  know." 

"I  daresay  you  would,  but  I'm  not  going  to  give 
away  a  confidence.  Suppose  you  told  me  that  you 
were  keen  on  a  girl  and  that  you'd  heard  she  wouldn't 
have  anything  to  do  with  anyone,  you  wouldn't  like 
me  to  go  and  tell  her  who  you  were,  would  you?" 

"No." 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't.  That's  the  sort  of  thing 
one  keeps  to  oneself." 

"Yes;  but  as  I  shall  never  see  her " 

Roland  adopted  in  reply  the  stern  tone  of  admoni- 
tion, "Of  course  not;  but  if  I  told  you,  you'd  take  jolly 
good  care  that  you  did  see  her,  and  then  you'd  tell 
someone  else.  You'd  point  her  out  and  say,  'That 
girl  wanted  me  to  come  out  for  a  walk  with  her.' 
You  know  you  would,  and  of  course  the  other  fellow 
would  promise  not  to  tell  anyone  and  of  course  he 
would.  It  would  be  round  the  whole  place  in  a  week, 
and  think  how  the  poor  girl  would  feel  being  laughed 
at  by  everyone  because  a  fellow  that  was  four  years 
younger  than  herself  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do 
with  her." 

"What!    Four  years  older  than  me?" 

"About  that." 

"And  she's  pretty,  you  say?" 

"Jolly." 

There  was  a  pause. 


A  POTENTIAL  DIPLOMAT  53 

"You  know,  Whately,"  he  began,  "I'd  rather  .  .  ." 
then  broke  off.  "Oh,  look  here,  do  tell  me." 

Roland  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  give  away  secrets." 

"But  why  did  you  tell  me  anything  about  it  at  all?" 

"I  don't  know;  it  just  cropped  up,  didn't  it?  I 
thought  it  might  amuse  you." 

"Well,  I  think  it's  rotten  of  you.  I  shan't  be  able 
to  think  of  anything  else  until  I  know." 

Which  was,  of  course,  exactly  what  Roland  wanted. 
He  knew  how  Brewster's  imagination  would  play  with 
the  idea.  Betty  would  become  for  him  strange,  wist- 
ful, passionate.  Four  years  older  than  himself  he 
would  picture  her  as  the  Lilith  of  old,  the  eternal 
temptress.  In  herself  she  was  nothing.  If  he  had 
met  her  in  the  streets  two  days  earlier  he  would  have 
hardly  noticed  her.  "A  pleasant,  country  girl,"  he 
would  have  said,  and  let  her  pass  out  of  his  thoughts. 
But  now  the  imagination  that  colors  all  things 
would  make  her  irresistible,  and  when  he  met  her  she 
would  be  identified  with  his  dream. 

Next  morning  Brewster  ran  across  to  him  during 
break. 

"I  say,  Whately,  do  tell  me  who  she  is." 

"No;  I  told  you  I  wasn't  going  to." 

"Well,  then.    Oh,  look  here !    Is  it  Dorothy  Jones?" 

Dorothy  Jones  was  the  daughter  of  the  owner  of  a 
cycle  shop  and  was  much  admired  in  the  school. 

"Would  you  like  it  to  be?"  Roland  asked. 

"I  don't  know.    Perhaps.    But  is  it,  though?" 

"Perhaps." 

"It  is  Dorothy  Jones,  isn't  it?    It  is  her?" 

"If  you  know,  why  do  you  ask  me?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  fool!    Is  it  Dorothy  Jones?" 

"Perhaps." 


54  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"WeU,  if  it  isn't  her,  is  it  Mary  Gardiner?" 

"It  is  Mary  Gardiner,"  Roland  mocked.  "It  is  she, 
isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  you're  awful,"  said  Brewster,  and  walked 
away. 

But  that  evening  he  came  over  to  the  School  house 
studies  and,  just  before  Hall,  a  small  boy  ran  across 
to  the  reading-room  to  tell  Roland  that  Brewster  was 
waiting  in  the  cloisters  and  would  like  to  speak  to 
him. 

"WeU,"  said  Roland,  "and  what  is  it?" 

"It's  about  the  girl." 

Roland  affected  a  weary  impatience. 

"Oh,  Lord,  but  I  thought  we'd  finished  with  all  that. 
I  told  you  that  I  wasn't  going  to  give  her  away." 

"Yes,  I  know ;  but  ...  ah,  well,  look  here,  I  must 
know  who  the  girl  is.  No,  don't  interrupt.  Will  you 
tell  me  if  I  promise  to  come  out  with  her  once?" 

Roland  thought  for  a  moment.  He  had  his  man 
now,  but  it  would  not  do  to  hurry  things.  He  must 
play  for  safety  a  little  longer. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  that  game,"  he  said.  "I  shall  tell 
you  her  name  and  then  you'll  wish  you  hadn't  prom- 
ised and  you'll  get  frightened,  and  when  the  time 
comes  you  will  have  sprained  an  ankle  in  a  house 
match  and  won't  be  able  to  come  for  a  walk.  That 
won't  do  at  all." 

"But  I  swear  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  Brewster  pro- 
tested. "Really,  I  wouldn't." 

"Yes,  and  I  promised  that  I  wasn't  going  to  tell." 

"But  that's  so  silly.  Suppose  now  that  I  was  really 
keen  on  her.  For  all  you  know,  or  I,  for  that  matter, 
I  may  have  seen  her  walking  about  the  town  and 
thought  her  jolly  pretty  without  knowing  who  she 
was." 


A  POTENTIAL  DIPLOMAT  55 

"And  I'm  damned  certain  you  haven't.  You  told 
me  that  you  didn't  take  any  interest  in  girls." 

"No,  but  really,  honest,  man,  I  may  have  seen  her. 
Only  this  morning  as  I  was  going  down  to  Fort's  after 
breakfast  I  saw  an  absolutely  ripping  girl,  and  I  be- 
lieve it  was  me  she  smiled  at.  It's  very  likely  her." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  daresay,  but ' 

"Oh,  come  on,  do  tell  me,  and  I  promise  you  I'll 
come  and  see  her;  honest,  I  will." 

But  at  that  moment  the  roll-bell  issued  its  cracked 
summons. 

"If  you  don't  run  like  sin  you'll  be  late  for  roll-call, 
and  that'll  finish  everything,"  Roland  said,  and 
Brewster  turned  and  sprinted  across  the  courts. 

Roland  walked  back  to  his  study  in  a  mood  of  deep 
self-satisfaction.  He  was  carrying  an  extremely  dim- 
cult  job  to  a  triumphant  close.  It  did  not  occur  to 
him  that  the  role  he  filled  was  not  a  particularly  noble 
one  and  that  an  unpleasantly  worded  label  could  be 
discovered  for  it.  He  was  living  in  the  days  of  unre- 
flecting action.  He  did,  or  refrained  from  doing,  the 
things  he  wanted  to  do,  without  a  minute  analysis  of 
motive,  but  in  accordance  with  a  definite  code  of 
rules.  He  lived  his  life  as  he  played  cricket.  There 
were  rewards  and  there  were  penalties.  If  you  hit 
across  a  straight  long  hop  you  ran  a  chance  of  being 
leg  before,  and  if  the  ball  hit  your  pad  you  went 
straight  back  to  the  pavilion.  You  played  to  win, 
but  you  played  the  game,  provided  that  you  played  it 
according  to  the  rules.  It  did  not  matter  to  Roland 
what  the  game  was.  And  the  affair  of  Betty  and 
Brewster  was  a  game  that  he  was  winning  fairly  and 
squarely. 

Next  morning  he  achieved  victory.  He  met 
Brewster  during  break  and  presented  his  ultimatum. 


56  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"I  won't  tell  you  her  name,"  he  said.  "I  promised 
not  to.  It  wouldn't  be  the  game.  But  I  tell  you  what 
I  will  do,  though.  If  you'll  promise  to  come  out  for  a 
walk  with  me  on  Sunday  I'll  arrange  for  her  to  meet 
us  somewhere,  and  then  you  can  see  what  you  think 
of  each  other.  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  that?" 

Brewster's  curiosity  was  so  roused  that  he  accepted 
eagerly,  and  next  Sunday  they  set  out  together  to- 
wards Cold  Harbour. 

About  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  school  a  sunken 
lane  ran  down  the  side  of  a  steep  hill  towards  the 
railway.  The  lane  could  be  approached  from  two 
sides,  and  from  the  shelter  of  a  thick  hedge  it  was 
possible  to  observe  the  whole  country-side  without 
being  seen.  It  was  here  that  they  had  arranged  their 
meeting. 

They  found  the  two  girls  waiting  when  they  ar- 
rived. Betty  looked  very  smart  in  a  dark  blue  coat 
and  skirt  and  a  small  hat  that  fitted  tightly  over  her 
head.  She  smiled  at  Roland,  and  the  sight,  after 
months,  of  her  fresh-colored  face,  with  its  bright 
eyes  and  wide,  moist  mouth,  sent  a  sudden  thrill 
through  him — half  fear,  half  excitement. 

"So  you've  managed  to  arrange  it,"  said  Dolly. 
"How  clever  of  you." 

"Very  nice  of  him  to  come,"  said  Betty,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  Brewster,  who  stood  awkwardly,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  kicking  one  heel  against  the  other. 

For  a  few  minutes  they  talked  together,  stupid, 
inconsequent  badinage,  punctuated  by  giggles,  till 
Betty,  as  usual,  reminded  them  that  they  would  only 
have  an  hour  together. 

"About  time  we  paired  off,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Roland.  "Come  along,  Dolly," 
and  they  began  to  walk  down  the  lane.  At  the  cor- 


A  POTENTIAL  DIPLOMAT  57 

ner  they  turned  and  saw  the  other  two  standing  to- 
gether— Betty,  taller,  confident  and  all-powerful; 
Brewster,  looking  up  at  her,  scared  and  timid,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him. 

"He  looks  a  bit  shy,  doesn't  he?"  said  Dolly. 

Roland  laughed. 

"He  won't  be  for  long,  I  expect." 

"Rather  not.  He'll  soon  get  used  to  her.  Betty 
doesn't  let  her  boys  stop  shy  with  her  for  long.  She 
makes  them  do  as  she  wants  them." 

And  when  they  returned  an  hour  later  they  saw 
the  two  sitting  side  by  side  chatting  happily.  But 
as  soon  as  they  reached  them  Brewster  became  silent 
and  shy,  and  looked  neither  of  them  in  the  face. 

"Had  a  good  time?"  asked  Dolly. 

"Ask  him,"  she  answered. 

And  they  laughed,  all  except  Brewster,  and  made 
arrangements  to  meet  again,  only  a  little  earlier  the 
next  week. 

"Well,"  said  Roland,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of 
earshot,  "and  how  did  you  enjoy  yourself?" 

Brewster  admitted  that  it  had  been  pretty  good. 

"Only  pretty  good?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "it  was  all  right. 
Yes,  it  was  ripping,  really;  but  it  was  so  different 
from  what  I  had  expected." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  well,  you  know.  I  felt  so  awkward;  she 
started  everything.  I  didn't  have  any  say  in  it  at  all. 
I  had  thought  it  was  up  to  me  to  do  all  that." 

"Betty's  not  that  sort." 

"No,  but  it's  a  funny  business." 

"You  are  coming  out  next  week,  though?" 

"Rather!" 

And  next  week  Dolly,  as  soon  as  she  was  alone  with 


58  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Roland,  began  to  ask  him  questions  about  Brewster: 
"What  did  he  say  to  you?  What  did  he  think  of  her? 
Was  she  nice  to  him?  You  must  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"Oh,  I  think  he  enjoyed  himself  all  right.  She 
startled  him  a  bit." 

"Did  she?    What  did  he  say?    Do  tell  me." 

She  asked  him  question  after  question,  and  he  had 
to  repeat  to  her  every  word  he  could  remember  of 
Brewster's  conversation.  Did  he  still  feel  shy?  Did 
he  think  Betty  beautiful?  Was  he  at  all  in  love  with 
her?  And  then  Roland  began  to  ask  what  Betty  had 
thought  of  Brewster.  Had  she  preferred  him  to 
Howard?  She  wasn't  disappointed  in  him?  Did  she 
like  him  better  than  the  other  boys?  They  talked 
eagerly. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  fun  to  go  back  and  have  a  look  at 
them?"  said  Dolly.  "I'd  give  anything  to  see  them 
together." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  suddenly,  with  a  fervor  they 
had  never  reached  before,  they  kissed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

APRIL'S   LOOKING-GLASS 

FOR  April  the  term  which  brought  Roland  so  much 
excitement  was  slow  in  passing.  In  spite  of  the 
disastrous  evening  at  the  ball,  Roland's  return  to 
school  left  a  void  in  her  life.  When  she  awoke  in  the 
morning  and  stretched  herself  in  bed  before  getting 
up  she  would  ask  herself  what  good  thing  she  could 
expect  that  day  to  bring  her.  When  she  felt  happy 
she  would  demand  the  reason  of  herself.  "Over  what 
are  you  happy?"  she  would  ask  herself.  "In  five 
minutes'  time  you  will  get  up.  You  will  put  on  your 
dressing-gown  and  hurry  down  the  corridor  to  the 
bathroom.  You  will  dress  hurriedly,  but  come  down 
all  the  same  a  little  late  for  breakfast.  You  will  find 
that  your  father  has  eaten,  as  is  his  wont,  more  than 
his  share  of  toast,  which  will  mean  that  you,  being 
the  last  down,  will  have  to  go  without  it.  You  will 
rush  down  to  school  saying  over  to  yourself  the  dates 
of  your  history  lesson.  You  will  hang  your  hat  and 
coat  on  the  fourth  row  of  pegs  and  on  the  seventh 
peg  from  the  right.  From  nine  o'clock  to  ten  you  will 
be  heard  your  history  lesson.  From  ten  o'clock  till 
eleven  you  will  take  down  notes  on  chemistry.  From 
eleven  to  a  quarter  past  there  will  be  an  interval  dur- 
ing which  you  will  try  to  find  a  friend  to  help  you 
with  the  Latin  translation,  of  which  you  prepared 
only  the  first  thirty  lines  last  night.  From  a  quarter- 
past  eleven  till  a  quarter-past  twelve  you  will  be 

59 


60  ROLAND  WHATELY 

heard  that  lesson.  At  a  quarter-past  twelve  you  will 
attend  a  lecture  on  English  literature,  which  will  last 
till  one  o'clock.  You  will  then  have  lunch,  and  as 
to-day  is  Tuesday  you  know  that  your  lunch  will 
consist  of  boiled  mutton  and  caper  sauce,  followed  by 
apple  dumpling.  In  the  afternoon  you  will  have 
gymnastics  and  a  music  lesson,  after  which  there  will 
be  an  hour  of  Mademoiselle's  French  conversation 
class.  You  will  then  come  home.  You  will  hurry 
your  tea  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to  finish  your 
preparation  before  your  father  comes  back  from  the 
office  at  twenty  minutes  to  seven,  because  when  once 
he  is  back  your  mother  will  begin  to  talk,  and  when 
she  begins  to  talk  work  becomes  impossible.  You 
will  then  dine  with  your  parents  at  half-past  seven. 
You  will  sit  perfectly  quiet  at  the  table  and  not  say  a 
word,  while  your  mother  talks  and  talks  and  father 
listens  and  occasionally  says,  'Yes,  mother/  or  'No, 
mother.'  After  dinner  you  will  read  a  book  in  the 
drawing-room  till  your  mother  reminds  you  that  it  is 
nine  o'clock  and  time  that  you  were  in  bed.  You 
have,  in  fact,  before  you  a  day  similar  in  every  detail 
to  yesterday,  and  similar  in  every  detail  to  to-morrow. 
If  you  think  anything  different  is  going  to  happen  to 
you,  then  you  are  a  little  fool."  And  April  would 
have  to  confess  that  this  self-catechism  was  true. 
"Nothing  happens,"  she  would  say.  "One  day  is  like 
another,  and  I  am  a  little  fool  to  wake  up  in  the  morn- 
ing excited  about  nothing  at  all." 

But  all  the  same  she  was  excited  and  she  did  feel,  in 
spite  of  reason,  that  something  was  bound  to  happen 
soon.  "Things  cannot  go  on  like  this  for  ever,"  she 
told  herself.  And,  looking  into  the  future,  she  came 
gradually  to  look  upon  the  day  of  Roland's  return 
from  school  as  the  event  which  would  alter,  in  a  way 


APRIL'S  LOOKING-GLASS  61 

she  could  not  discern,  the  whole  tenor  of  her  life.  It 
was  not  in  these  words  that  the  idea  was  presented  to 
her.  "It  may  be  different  during  the  holidays  when 
Roland  is  here."  That  was  her  first  thought,  from 
which  the  words  "when  Roland  is  here"  detached 
themselves,  starting  another  train  of  thought,  that 
"Life  when  Roland  is  here  is  always  different";  and 
she  began  to  look  forward  to  the  holidays,  counting 
the  days  till  his  return.  "Things  will  be  different 
then." 

It  was  not  love,  it  was  not  friendship ;  it  was  simply 
the  belief  that  Roland's  presence  would  be  a  key  to 
that  world  other  than  this,  of  which  shadowy  inti- 
mations haunted  her  continually.  Roland  became  the 
focus  for  her  disquiet,  her  longing,  her  vague  appre- 
ciation of  the  eternal  essence  made  manifest  for  her 
in  the  passing  phenomena  of  life. 

"When  Roland  comes  back.  .  .  ."  And  though  she 
marked  on  the  calendar  that  hung  in  her  bedroom 
April  2,  the  last  day  of  her  own  term,  with  a  big  red 
cross,  it  was  April  5  that  she  regarded  as  the  real  be- 
ginning of  her  holidays.  And  when  she  came  down  to 
breakfast  and  her  father  said  to  her,  "Only  seven  more 
days  now,  April,"  she  would  answer  gayly,  "Yes,  only 
a  week.  Isn't  it  lovely?"  But  to  herself  she  would 
add,  "Ten  days,  only  ten  days  more!" 

And  so  she  missed  altogether  the  usual  last  day 
excitement.  She  did  not  wake  on  that  first  morning 
happy  with  the  delicious  thought  that  she  could  lie  in 
bed  for  an  extra  ten  minutes  if  she  liked.  She  had  not 
yet  begun  her  holidays. 

But  two  days  later  she  was  in  a  fever  of  expecta- 
tion. In  twenty-four  hours'  time  Roland  would  be 
home.  How  slowly  the  day  passed.  In  the  evening 
she  said  she  was  tired  and  went  to  bed  before  dinner, 


62  ROLAND  WHATELY 

so  that  the  next  day  might  come  quickly  for  her.  But 
when  she  got  to  bed  she  found  that  she  could  not 
sleep,  and  though  she  repeated  the  word  "abraca- 
dabra" many  hundred  times  and  counted  innumerable 
sheep  passing  through  innumerable  gates,  she  lay 
awake  till  after  midnight,  hearing  hour  after  hour 
strike.  And  when  at  last  sleep  came  to  her  it  was 
light  and  fitful  and  she  awoke  often. 

Next  day  she  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  herself. 
She  tried  to  read  and  could  not.  She  tried  to  sew  and 
could  not.  She  ran  up  and  down  stairs  on  trifling 
errands  in  order  to  pass  the  time.  In  vain  she  tried 
to  calm  herself.  "What  are  you  getting  so  excited 
about?  What  do  you  think  is  going  to  happen? 
What  can  happen?  The  most  that  can  happen  is  that 
he  will  come  round  with  his  father  in  the  evening,  and 
you  know  well  enough  by  now  what  that  will  mean. 
Your  mother  will  talk  and  his  father  will  say,  'Yes, 
Mrs.  Curtis/  and  'Really,  Mrs.  Curtis/  and  you  and 
Roland  will  hardly  exchange  a  word  with  one  another. 
You  are  absurdly  excited  over  nothing." 

But  logic  was  of  no  avail,  and  all  the  afternoon  she 
fidgeted  with  impatience.  By  tea-time  she  was  in  a 
state  of  repressed  hysteria.  She  sat  in  the  window- 
seat  looking  down  the  road  in  the  direction  from 
which  he  would  have  to  come.  "I  wonder  if  he  will 
come  without  his  father.  It  would  be  so  dear  of  him 
if  he  would,  but  I  don't  suppose  he  will.  No,  of  course 
he  won't.  It's  silly  of  me  to  think  of  it.  He'll  have 
to  wait  for  his  father;  he  always  does.  That  means 
he  won't  be  here  at  the  earliest  till  after  six.  And  it's 
only  ten  minutes  to  five  now." 

And  to  make  things  worse,  seldom  had  she  found 
her  mother  more  annoying. 

"Now,  why  don't  you  go  for  a  walk,  April,  dear?" 


APRIL'S  LOOKING-GLASS  63 

she  said.  "It's  such  a  lovely  evening  and  you've  been 
indoors  nearly  all  day.  It  isn't  good,  and  I  was  saying 
to  your  father  only  the  other  day,  'Father,  dear,  I'm 
sure  April  isn't  up  to  the  mark.  She  looks  so  pale 
nowadays.' ' 

"I'm  all  right,  mother." 

"No,  but  are  you,  dear?  You're  looking  really 
pale.  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  ask  Dr.  Dunkin  to  come 
and  see  you." 

"But  I'm  all  right — really,  I'm  all  right,  mother.  I 
know  when  anything  is  wrong  with  me." 

"But  you  don't,  April,  dear.  That's  just  the  point. 
Don't  you  remember  that  time  when  you  insisted  on 
going  to  the  tennis  party  and  assured  us  that  you  were 
quite  well,  and  when  you  came  back  we  found  you 
had  a  temperature  of  101°  and  that  you  were  sicken- 
ing for  measles?  I  was  saying  to  Dr.  Dunkin  only 
this  morning:  'Dr.  Dunkin,  I'm  really  not  satisfied 
about  our  little  April.  I  think  I  shall  have  to  ask  you 
to  give  her  a  tonic' ;  and  he  said  to  me :  'Yes,  that's 
right,  Mrs.  Curtis;  you  bring  me  along  to  her  and  I'll 
set  her  straight.' ' 

April  put  her  hands  up  to  her  head  and  tried  not  to 
listen,  but  her  mother's  voice  flowed  on: 

"And  now,  dear,  do  go  out  for  a  walk — just  a  little 
one." 

"But,  mother,  dear,  I  don't  want  to,  really,  and  I'm 
feeling  so  tired." 

"There,  what  did  I  say?  You're  feeling  tired  and 
you've  done  nothing  all  day.  There  must  be  some- 
thing wrong  with  you.  I  shall  certainly  ask  Dr.  Dun- 
kin  to  come  and  see  you  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,  mother.  I'll  do  anything  you 
like  to-morrow.  If  you'll  only  leave  me  alone  to- 
night." 


64  ROLAND  WHATELY 

But  Mrs.  Curtis  went  on  talking,  and  April  grew 
more  and  more  exasperated,  and  the  minutes  went 
past  and  Roland  did  not  come.  Six  struck  and  half- 
past  six,  and  a  few  minutes  later  she  heard  her  father's 
latch-key  in  the  door.  And  then  the  whole  question 
of  her  health  was  dragged  out  again. 

"I  was  saying  to  you  only  yesterday,  father,  that 
our  little  April  wasn't  as  well  as  she  ought  to  be.  She 
has  overworked,  I  think.  Last  night  she  went  to  bed 
early  and  to-day  she  looks  quite  pale,  and  she  says 
that  she  feels  tired  although  she  hasn't  really  done 
anything.  I  must  send  for  Dr.  Dunkin  to-morrow." 

It  seemed  to  April  that  the  voice  would  never  stop. 
It  beat  and  beat  upon  her  brain,  like  the  ticking  of  the 
watch  that  reminded  her  of  the  flying  moments.  "He 
won't  come  now,"  she  said;  "he  won't  come  now." 
Seven  o'clock  had  struck,  the  lamps  were  lit,  evening 
had  descended  upon  the  street.  He  had  never  come 
as  late  as  this  before.  But  she  still  sat  at  the  window, 
gazing  down  the  street  towards  the  figures  that  be- 
came distinct  for  a  moment  in  the  lamplight.  "He 
will  not  come  now,"  she  said,  and  suddenly  she  felt 
limp,  tired,  incapable  of  resistance.  She  put  her  head 
upon  her  knees  and  began  to  sob. 

In  a  moment  her  mother's  arms  were  round  her. 
"But,  darling,  what  is  it,  April,  dear?" 

She  could  not  speak.  She  shook  her  head,  tried 
desperately  to  make  a  sign  that  she  was  all  right,  that 
she  would  rather  be  left  alone ;  but  it  was  no  use.  She 
felt  too  bitterly  the  need  for  human  sympathy.  She 
turned,  flung  her  arms  about  her  mother's  neck,  and 
began  to  sob  and  sob. 

"Oh,  mother,  mother,"  she  cried.  "I'm  so  miser- 
able. I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't  know  what 
to  do." 


APRIL'S  LOOKING-GLASS  65 

Next  morning  Dr.  Dunkin  felt  her  pulse,  prescribed 
a  tonic  and  told  her  not  to  stay  too  much  indoors. 

"Now,  you'll  be  all  right,  dear,"  her  mother  said. 
"Dr.  Dunkin's  medicines  are  splendid." 

April  smiled  quietly.  "Yes,  I  expect  that  was  what 
was  wanted.  I  think  I  worked  a  little  too  hard  last 
term." 

"I'm  sure  you  did,  my  dear.  I  shall  write  to  Mrs. 
Clarke  about  it.  I  can't  have  my  little  girl  getting 
run  down." 

And  that  afternoon  April  met  Roland  in  the  High 
Street.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  seen  him 
alone  since  the  evening  of  the  dance,  and  she  found 
him  awkward  and  embarrassed.  They  said  a  few 
things  of  no  importance — about  the  holidays,  the 
weather  and  their  acquaintances.  Then  April  said 
that  she  must  be  going  home,  and  Roland  made  no 
effort  to  detain  her — did  not  even  make  any  sugges- 
tion about  coming  round  to  see  her. 

"So  that  is  what  you  have  been  looking  forward  to 
for  over  a  month,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  he  passed 
out  of  sight  behind  an  angle  of  the  road.  "This  is  the 
date  you  wanted  to  mark  upon  your  calendar  with  a 
red  cross.  Little  fool.  What  did  you  think  you  were 
doing?  And  what  has  it  turned  out  to  be  in  the  end? 
Five  minutes'  discussion  of  indifferent  things.  A  fine 
event  to  make  such  a  fuss  about;  and  what  else  did 
you  expect?" 

She  was  not  bitter.  It  was  one  of  those  mild  days 
that  in  early  spring  surprise  us  with  a  promise  of 
summer,  on  which  the  heart  is  stirred  with  the 
crowded  glory  of  life  and  the  sense  of  widening  hori- 
zons. The  long  stretch  of  roofs  and  chimney  stacks 
became  beautiful  in  the  subdued  sunlight.  It  was  an 
hour  that  in  the  strong  might  have  quickened  the 


66  ROLAND  WHATELY 

hunger  for  adventure,  but  that  to  April  brought  a 
mood  of  chastened,  quiet  resignation.  She  appre- 
ciated, as  she  had  not  done  before,  the  tether  by  which 
her  scope  was  measured.  For  the  last  month  she  had 
made  Roland's  return  a  focus  for  the  ambitions  and 
desires  and  yearnings  towards  an  intenser  way  of 
living,  for  which  of  herself  she  had  been  unable  to 
find  expression.  This,  in  a  confused  manner,  she 
understood.  "I  can  do  nothing  by  myself.  I  have 
to  live  in  other  people.  And  what  I  am  now  I  shall 
be  always.  All  my  life  I  shall  be  dependent  on  some- 
one else,  or  on  some  interest  that  is  outside  myself. 
And  whether  I  am  happy  or  unhappy  depends  upon 
some  other  person.  That  is  my  nature,  and  I  cannot 
go  beyond  my  nature."  When  she  reached  home  she 
sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  window-seat,  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap.  "This  will  be  my  whole  life,"  she 
said.  "I  am  not  of  those  who  may  go  out  in  search 
of  happiness."  And  she  thought  that  if  romance  did 
not  come  to  her,  she  would  remain  all  her  life  sitting 
at  a  window.  "Of  myself  I  can  do  nothing." 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   SORRY   BUSINESS 

APRIL  did  not  see  very  much  of  Roland  during 
the  holidays,  and  was  not,  on  the  whole,  sorry. 
Now  that  the  hysterical  excitement  over  his  return 
had  passed,  she  judged  it  better  to  let  their  friendship 
lapse.  She  did  not  want  any  repetition  of  that  dis- 
astrous evening,  and  thought  that  it  would  be  easier 
to  resume  their  friendship  on  its  old  basis  after  the 
long  interval  of  the  summer  term.  Roland  was  still 
a  little  piqued  by  what  he  considered  her  absurd  be- 
havior, and  had  resolved  to  let  the  first  step  come 
from  her. 

This  estrangement  was  a  disappointment  to  his 
people. 

"Have  you  noticed,  my  dear,  that  Roland's  hardly 
been  round  to  the  Curtises'  at  all  these  holidays?" 
Mr.  Whately  said  to  his  wife  one  evening.  "I  hope 
there  has  not  been  a  row  or  anything.  I  rather  wish 
you'd  try  and  find  out." 

And  so  next  day  Mrs.  Whately  made  a  guarded 
remark  to  her  son  about  April's  appearance:  "What 
a  big  girl  she's  getting.  And  she's  prettier  every  day. 
If  you're  not  careful  you'll  have  all  the  boys  in  the 
place  running  after  her  and  cutting  you  out." 

Roland  answered  in  an  off-hand  manner,  "They  can 
for  all  I  care,  mother." 

"Oh,  but,  Roland,  you  shouldn't  say  that;  I  thought 

67 


68  ROLAND  WHATELY 

you  were  getting  on  so  well  together  last  holidays. 
We  were  even  saying 

But  Roland  never  allowed  himself  to  be  forced  into 
a  confidence. 

"Oh,  please,  mother,  don't.  There  was  nothing  in 
it;  really,  there  wasn't." 

"You  haven't  had  a  row,  have  you,  Roland?" 

"Of  course  not,  mother.  What  should  we  have  a 
row  about?" 

"I  don't  know,  dear.    I  only  thought " 

"Well,  you  needn't  worry  about  us,  mother;  we're 
all  right." 

Roland  was  by  no  means  pleased  at  what  seemed  to 
him  a  distinct  case  of  interference.  It  arrived,  too, 
at  a  most  inopportune  moment,  for  he  had  been  just 
then  wondering  whether  he  ought  not  to  forget  about 
his  high-minded  resolves  and  try  to  make  it  up  with 
April.  His  mother's  inquiries,  however,  decided  him. 
He  was  not  going  to  have  others  arranging  that  sort 
of  thing  for  him.  "And  for  all  I  know,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "Mrs.  Curtis  may  be  at  the  back  of  this.  I 
shan't  go  round  there  again  these  holidays."  And 
this  was  the  more  unfortunate,  because  if  the  inti- 
macy between  Roland  and  April  had  been  resumed, 
it  is  more  than  likely  that  Roland,  at  the  beginning 
of  the  summer  term,  would  have  decided  to  give  up 
Dolly  altogether.  Both  he  and  Brewster  were  a  little 
tired  of  it ;  the  first  interest  had  passed,  and  they  had 
actually  discussed  the  wisdom  of  dropping  the  whole 
business. 

"After  all,"  said  Brewster,  "it  can't  go  on  forever. 
It'll  have  to  stop  some  time,  and  next  term  we  shall 
both  be  fairly  high  in  the  school,  house  prefects  and 
all  that,  and  we  shall  have  to  be  pretty  careful  what 
we  do." 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  69 

Roland  was  inclined  to  agree  with  him,  but  his 
curiosity  was  still  awake. 

"It's  not  so  easy  to  break  a  thing  like  this.  Let's 
wait  till  the  end  of  the  term.  The  summer  holidays 
are  a  long  time,  and  by  the  time  we  come  back  they'll 
very  likely  have  picked  up  someone  else." 

"All  right,"  said  Brewster,  "I  don't  mind.  And  it 
does  add  an  interest  to  things." 

And  so  the  affair  went  on  smoothly  and  comfort- 
ably, a  pleasant  interlude  among  the  many  good  gifts 
of  a  summer  term — cricket  and  swimming  and  the 
long,  lazy  evenings.  Nothing,  indeed,  occurred  to 
ruffle  the  complete  happiness  of  Roland's  life,  till  one 
Monday  morning  during  break  Brewster  came  run- 
ning across  to  the  School  house  studies  with  the  disas- 
trous news  that  his  house  master  had  found  out  all 
about  it.  It  had  happened  thus: 

On  the  previous  Saturday  Roland  had  sent  up  a 
note  in  break  altering  the  time  of  an  appointment.  It 
was  the  morning  of  a  school  match  and  Brewster  re- 
ceived the  note  on  his  way  down  to  the  field.  He  was 
a  little  late,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  read  the  note  he 
shoved  it  into  his  pocket  and  thought  no  more  about 
it.  During  the  afternoon  he  slipped,  trying  to  bring 
off  a  one-handed  catch  in  the  slips,  and  tore  the  knee 
of  his  trousers.  The  game  ended  late  and  he  had  only 
just  time  to  change  and  take  his  trousers  round  to  the 
matron  to  be  mended  before  lock-up.  In  the  right- 
hand  pocket  the  matron  discovered  Roland's  note, 
and,  judging  its  contents  singular,  placed  it  before 
Mr.  Carus  Evans. 

As  Roland  walked  back  with  Brewster  from  the 
tuckshop  a  small  boy  ran  up  to  tell  him  that  Mr. 
Carus  Evans  would  like  to  see  him  directly  after 
lunch. 


70  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Roland  was  quite  calm  as  he  walked  up  the  hill 
three  hours  later.  One  is  only  frightened  when  one 
is  uncertain  of  one's  fate.  When  a  big  row  is  on,  in 
which  one  may  possibly  be  implicated,  one  endures 
agonies,  wondering  whether  or  not  one  will  be  found 
out.  But  when  it  is  settled,  when  one  is  found  out, 
what  is  there  to  do?  One  must  let  things  take  their 
course;  nothing  can  alter  it.  There  is  no  need  for 
fret  or  fever.  Roland  was  able  to  consider  his  position 
with  detached  interest. 

He  had  been  a  fool  to  send  that  note.  Notes  al- 
ways got  lost  or  dropped  and  the  wrong  people  picked 
them  up.  How  many  fellows  had  not  got  themselves 
bunked  that  way,  notes  and  confirmation?  They 
were  the  two  great  menaces,  the  two  hidden  rocks. 
Probably  confirmation  was  the  more  dangerous.  On 
the  whole,  more  fellows  had  got  the  sack  through 
confirmation,  but  notes  were  not  much  better.  What 
an  ass  he  had  been.  He  would  never  send  a  note 
again,  never ;  he  swore  it  to  himself,  and  then  reflected 
a  little  dismally  that  he  might  very  likely  never  have 
the  opportunity. 

Still,  that  was  rather  a  gloomy  view  to  take.  And 
he  stood  more  chance  with  Carus  Evans  than  he 
would  have  done  with  any  other  master.  Carus 
Evans  had  always  hated  him,  and  because  he  hated 
him  would  be  desperately  anxious  to  treat  him  fairly. 
As  a  result  he  would  be  sure  to  underpunish  him.  It 
is  always  safer  to  have  a  big  row  with  a  master  who 
dislikes  you  than  with  one  who  is  your  friend.  And 
from  this  reflection  Roland  drew  what  comfort  he 
might. 

Mr.  Carus  Evans  sat  writing  at  his  desk  when 
Roland  came  in.  He  looked  up  and  then  went  on 
with  his  letter.  It  was  an  attempt  to  make  Roland 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  71 

feel  uncomfortable  and  to  place  him  at  the  start  at  a 
disadvantage.  It  was  a  characteristic  action,  for 
Cams  Evans  was  a  weak  man.  His  house  was  prob- 
ably the  slackest  in  the  school.  It  had  no  one  in  the 
XV.,  Brewster  was  its  sole  representative  in  the  XI. 
and  it  did  not  possess  one  school  prefect.  This  should 
not  have  been,  for  Carus  Evans  was  a  bachelor  and 
all  his  energies  were  available.  He  had  no  second 
interest  to  attract  him,  but  he  was  weak  when  he 
should  have  been  strong;  he  chose  the  wrong  prefects 
and  placed  too  much  confidence  in  them.  He  was  not 
a  natural  leader. 

For  a  good  two  minutes  he  went  on  writing,  then 
put  down  his  pen. 

"Ah,  yes,  yes,  Whately.  Sit  down,  will  you?  Now 
then,  I've  been  talking  to  one  of  the  boys  in  my  house 
and  it  seems  that  you  and  he  have  been  going  out 
together  and  meeting  some  girls  in  the  town.  Is 
that  so?" 

"Ye*,  sir." 

"And  the  suggestion  came  from  you,  I  gather?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"This  is  a  very  serious  thing,  Whately.  I  suppose 
you  realize  that?" 

"I  suppose  so,  sir." 

"Of  course  it  is,  and  especially  so  for  a  boy  in 
your  position.  Now,  I  don't  know  what  attitude  the 
headmaster  will  adopt,  but  of  this  I  am  quite  certain. 
A  great  deal  will  depend  on  whether  you  tell  me  the 
truth.  I  shall  know  if  you  tell  me  a  lie.  You've  got 
to  tell  me  the  whole  story.  Now,  how  did  this  thing 
start?" 

"On  the  first  night  of  the  Christmas  term,  sir." 

"How?" 

"I  met  them  at  a  dance  in  the  pageant  grounds." 


72  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"The  pageant  grounds  are  out  of  bounds.  You 
ought  to  know  that." 

"It  was  the  first  night,  sir." 

"Don't  quibble  with  me.  They're  out  of  bounds. 
Well,  what  happened  next?" 

"I  danced  with  her,  sir." 

"Were  you  alone?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Who  was  with  you?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  sir." 

"If  you  don't  tell  me " 

"He's  left  now,  sir.    It  wouldn't  be  fair." 

They  looked  each  other  in  the  face  and  in  that 
moment  Carus  Evans  realized  that,  in  spite  of  their 
positions,  Roland  was  the  stronger. 

"Oh,  well,  never  mind  that ;  we  can  leave  it  till  later 
on.  And  I  suppose  you  made  an  appointment?" 

"No,  sir." 

"What?" 

"You  asked  me  if  I  made  an  appointment,  sir.  I 
answered  I  didn't." 

Roland  was  not  going  to  give  him  the  least  assist- 
ance. Indeed,  in  the  joy  of  being  able  to  play  once 
again  the  old  game  of  baiting  masters,  that  had  de- 
lighted him  so  much  when  he  had  been  in  the  middle 
school  and  that  he  had  to  abandon  so  reluctantly 
when  he  attained  the  dignity  of  the  Fifths  and  Sixths, 
he  had  almost  forgotten  that  he  was  in  a  singularly 
difficult  situation.  He  would  make  "old  Carus"  ask 
him  a  question  for  every  answer  that  he  gave.  And 
he  saw  that  for  the  moment  Carus  had  lost  his  length. 

"Well,  then,  let  me  see.  Yes,  well — er — well,  where 
did  you  meet  her  next?" 

"In  a  lane  beyond  Cold  Harbour,  sir." 

"Did  you  go  there  alone?" 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  73 

"No,  sir." 

"You  were  with  this  other  fellow?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  what  did  you  do?" 

"Do,  sir?" 

"Yes,  do.    Didn't  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  sir,  but,  Do?  I  don't  quite  understand  you. 
What  exactly  do  you  mean  by  the  word  'do'?" 

"You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean,  Whately. 
You  flirted,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  suppose  that's  what  I  did  do.  I 
flirted." 

"I  mean  you  held  her  hand?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  kissed  her?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Disgusting!  Simply  disgusting!  Is  this  place  a 
heathen  brothel  or  a  Christian  school?"  Cams'  face 
was  red,  and  he  drove  his  fingers  through  the  hair  at 
the  back  of  his  neck.  "You  go  out  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon and  kiss  a  shop-girl.  What  a  hobby  for  a  boy  in 
the  XV.  and  Sixth ! "  And  he  began  to  stamp  back- 
wards and  forwards  up  and  down  the  room. 

This  fine  indignation  did  not,  however,  impress 
Roland  in  the  least.  Carus  appeared  to  him  to  be  less 
disgusted  than  interested — pruriently  interested — 
and  that  he  was  angry  with  himself  rather  than  with 
Roland,  because  he  knew  instinctively  that  he  was 
not  feeling  as  a  master  should  feel  when  confronted 
with  such  a  scandal.  It  was  a  forced  emotion  that 
was  inspiring  the  fierce  flow  of  words. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  sort  of  thing  leads  to?" 
he  was  saying.  "But,  of  course,  you  do.  I  could 
trust  you  to  know  anything  like  that.  Your  whole  life 
may  be  ruined  by  it." 


74  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"But  I  didn't  do  anything  wrong." 

"Perhaps  you  didn't,  not  this  time,  though  I've 
only  your  word  for  it;  but  you  would  have,  sooner  or 
later,  under  different  conditions.  There's  only  one 
end  to  that  sort  of  thing.  And  even  if  you  were  all 
right  yourself,  how  did  you  know  that  Brewster  was 
going  to  be?  That's  the  beastly  part  of  it.  That's 
what  sickens  me  with  you.  Your  own  life  is  your 
own  to  do  what  you  like  with,  but  you've  no  right  to 
contaminate  others.  You  encourage  this  young  fel- 
low to  go  about  with  a  girl  four  years  older  than  him- 
self, about  whom  you  know  nothing.  How  could  you 
tell  what  might  be  happening  to  him?  He  may  not 
have  your  self-control.  He'd  never  have  started  this 
game  but  for  you,  and  now  that  he's  once  begun  he 
may  be  unable  to  break  himself  of  it.  You  may  have 
ruined  his  whole  life,  mayn't  you?" 

Roland  considered  the  question. 

"I  suppose  so,  but  I  didn't  look  at  it  that  way." 

"Of  course,  you  didn't.  But  it's  the  results  that 
count.  That's  what  you've  got  to  keep  in  mind; 
actions  are  judged  by  their  results.  And  now,  what 
do  you  imagine  is  going  to  happen  to  you?  I  suppose 
you  know  that  if  I  go  across  and  report  you  to  the 
headmaster  that  it'll  mean  the  next  train  back  to 
London?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  if  I  did,  you'd  have  no  cause  for  complaint. 
It  would  be  what  you'd  deserved,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

There  was  a  pause.  They  looked  at  each  other. 
Carus  Evans  hoped  that  he  had  frightened  Roland, 
but  he  had  not.  Roland  knew  that  Carus  did  not 
intend  to  get  him  expelled.  He  would  not  have  talked 
like  that  if  he  had.  He  was  trying  to  make  Roland 


A  SORHY  BUSINESS  75 

feel  that  he  was  conferring  a  favor  on  him  in  allowing 
him  to  stop  on. 

"There's  no  reason  why  I  should  feel  kindly  dis- 
posed towards  you,"  Carus  said.  "We've  never  got  on 
well  together.  You've  worked  badly  in  my  form.  I've 
never  regarded  you  as  a  credit  to  the  school.  When 
you  were  a  small  boy  you  were  rowdy  and  bumptious, 
and  now  that  you  have  reached  a  position  of  authority 
you  have  become  superior  and  conceited.  There's 
no  reason  why  I,  personally,  should  wish  to  see  you 
remain  a  member  of  the  school.  As  regards  my  own 
house,  I  cannot  yet  judge  what  harm  you  may  have 
done  me.  You've  started  the  poison  here.  Brewster 
will  have  told  his  friends.  One  bad  apple  will  cor- 
rupt a  cask.  I  don't  know  what  trouble  you  may 
have  laid  up  for  me." 

"No,  sir." 

"But  all  the  same,  I  know  what  it  means  to  expel 
a  boy.  He's  a  marked  man  for  life.  I'm  going  to  give 
you  another  chance." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"But  you've  got  to  make  this  thing  good  first. 
You've  got  to  go  to  the  headmaster  yourself  and  tell 
him  all  about  it — now,  at  once.  Do  you  see?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

It  was  going  to  be  an  awkward  business,  and  Roland 
made  no  attempt  to  conceal  it  from  himself.  It  was 
just  on  the  half-hour  as  he  walked  across  the  courts. 
Afternoon  school  was  beginning.  Groups  had  col- 
lected round  the  classrooms,  waiting  for  the  master  to 
let  them  in.  Johnson  waved  to  him  from  a  study 
window  and  told  him  to  hurry  up  and  help  them  with 
the  con. 

"Don't  wait  for  me,"  Roland  called  back.  "I've 
got  one  or  two  things  to  do.  I  shall  be  a  little  late." 


76  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Slacker,"  Johnson  laughed. 

It  was  funny  to  see  the  machine  revolving  so 
smoothly,  with  himself,  to  all  outward  appearance,  a 
complacently  efficient  cog  in  it.  He  supposed  that  a 
criminal  must  feel  like  this  when  he  watched  people 
hurry  past  him  in  the  streets;  all  of  them  so  intent 
upon  their  own  affairs  and  himself  seemingly  one  with 
them,  but  actually  so  much  apart. 

He  knocked  at  the  headmaster's  door. 

"Come  in." 

The  headmaster  was  surprised  to  see  Roland  at 
such  an  hour. 

"Yes,  Whately?"  he  said,  and  then  appeared  to 
remember  something,  and  began  to  fumble  among 
some  papers  on  his  desk.  "One  moment,  Whately; 
I  knew  there  was  something  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about.  Ah,  yes,  here  it  is.  Your  essay  on  Milton. 
Will  you  just  come  over  here  a  minute?  I  wanted  to 
have  a  few  words  with  you  about  it.  Sit  down,  won't 
you?  Now,  let  me  see,  where  is  it?  Ah,  yes,  here  it 
is:  now  you  say,  'Milton  was  a  Puritan  in  spite  of 
himself.  Satan  is  the  hero  of  the  poem.'  Now  I  want 
to  be  quite  certain  what  you  mean  by  that.  I'm  not 
going  to  say  that  you  are  wrong.  But  I  want  you  to 
be  quite  certain  in  your  own  mind  as  to  what  you 
mean  yourself." 

And  Roland  began  to  explain  how  Milton  had  let 
himself  be  carried  away  by  his  theme,  that  his 
nature  was  so  impregnated  by  the  sense  of  defeat  that 
defeat  seemed  to  him  a  nobler  thing  than  victory. 
Satan  had  become  the  focus  for  his  emotions  on  the 
overthrow  of  the  Commonwealth. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see  that,  but  surely,  Whately,  the 
Commonwealth  was  the  Puritan  party.  If  Milton  was 
so  distressed  by  the  return  of  the  Royalists,  how  do 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  77 

you  square  this  view  with  your  statement,  'Milton 
was  a  Puritan  in  spite  of  himself?  Surely  if  his  Puri- 
tanism was  only  imposed,  he  would  have  welcomed 
the  return  of  the  drama  and  a  more  highly  colored 
life." 

Roland  made  a  gallant  effort  to  explain,  but  all  the 
time  he  kept  saying  to  himself,  "I  came  here  for  a 
confessional,  and  yet  here  I  am  sitting  down  in  the 
Chiefs  best  arm-chair,  enjoying  a  friendly  chat.  I 
must  stop  it  somehow."  But  it  was  excessively  diffi- 
cult. He  began  to  lose  the  thread  of  his  argument 
and  contradicted  himself;  and  the  Chief  was  so  pa- 
tient, listening  to  him  so  attentively,  waiting  till  he 
had  finished. 

"But,  my  dear  Whately,"  the  Chief  said,  "you've 
just  said  that  Comus  is  a  proof  of  his  love  of  color 
and  display,  and  yet  you  say  in  the  same  breath  .  .  ." 

Would  it  never  cease?  And  how  on  earth  was  he 
at  the  end  going  to  introduce  the  subject  of  his  miser- 
able amours?  He  had  never  anticipated  anything 
like  this.  But  at  last  it  was  finished. 

"You  see  what  you've  done,  Whately?  You've 
picked  up  a  phrase  somewhere  or  other  about  the 
paganism  of  Milton  and  the  nobility  of  Satan  and  you 
have  not  taken  the  trouble  to  think  it  out.  You've 
just  accepted  it.  I  don't  say  that  your  statement 
could  not  be  justified.  But  it's  you  who  should  be 
able  to  justify  it,  not  I.  You  should  never  make  any 
statement  in  an  essay  that  you  can't  substantiate  with 
facts.  It's  a  good  essay,  though,  quite  good."  And 
he  returned  to  his  papers.  He  had  forgotten  alto- 
gether the  fact  that  Roland  had  come  unasked  to 
see  him. 

It  was  one  of  the  worst  moments  of  Roland's  life. 
He  stood  silent  in  the  middle  of  the  room  while  the 


78  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Chief  continued  his  letter,  thinking  the  interview  was 
at  an  end. 

"Sir,"  he  said  at  last. 

The  headmaster  looked  up  quickly  and  said  a  little 
impatiently,  for  he  was  a  busy  man  and  resented 
interruption,  "Well,  Whately?  Yes;  what  is  it?" 

"I  came  to  see  you,  sir." 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course  you  did.  I  forgot.  Well,  what 
is  it?" 

"Sir,  I've  come  to  tell  you  that  Mr.  Carus  Evans 
told  me  to  come  and  report  myself  to  you  and  say  that 
— well,  sir — that  I've  been  going  out  for  walks  with  a 
girl  in  the  town." 

"What!" 

"Yes,  sir,  a  girl  in  the  town,  and  that  I'd  asked  a 
boy  in  his  house  to  come  with  me,  sir." 

The  Chief  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  across  to 
the  mantelpiece.  There  was  a  long  pause. 

"But  I  don't  quite  understand,  Whately.  You've 
been  going  out  with  some  girl  in  the  town?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you've  encouraged  some  boy  in  Mr.  Carus 
Evans'  house  to  accompany  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  he,  I  suppose,  has  been  going  for  walks  with 
a  girl  as  well?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

There  was  another  long  pause,  during  which  Roland 
realized  that  he  had  chosen  the  worst  possible  moment 
for  his  confession.  Whatever  decision  the  Chief 
might  arrive  at  would  be  influenced,  not  only  by  his 
inevitable  disappointment  at  the  failure  of  a  boy  in 
whom  he  had  trusted,  but  by  its  violent  contrast  with 
the  friendly  discussion  over  the  essay  and  the  natural 
annoyance  of  a  busy  man  who  has  been  interrupted 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  79 

in  an  important  piece  of  work  to  discuss  an  unpleas- 
ant situation  that  has  arisen  unexpectedly.  When 
the  Chief  at  last  began  to  speak  there  was  an  impa- 
tience in  his  voice  that  would  have  been  absent  if 
Roland  had  tackled  him  after  dinner. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I  am  tempted  some- 
times to  give  up  faith  in  you  fellows  altogether.  I 
never  know  where  I  am  with  any  of  you.  I  feel  as 
though  I  were  sitting  upon  a  volcano.  Everything 
seems  quiet  and  satisfactory  and  then  suddenly  the 
volcano  breaks  out  and  I  find  that  the  boys  in  whom 
I  have  placed,  or  am  thinking  of  placing,  responsi- 
bility have  deceived  me.  Do  you  realize  the  hypoc- 
risy of  your  behavior  during  the  last  year?  You 
have  been  meeting  Mr.  Carus  Evans  and  myself  on 
friendly,  straightforward  terms,  with  an  open  look  on 
your  face,  and  all  the  time,  behind  our  backs,  you've 
been  philandering  with  girls  in  the  town.  I  haven't 
asked  you  for  any  details  and  I  am  not  going  to ;  that 
doesn't  enter  into  the  question  at  all.  You've  been 
false  and  doublefaced.  You've  been  acting  a  lie  for 
a  year.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  that  makes  me  sick  of 
the  whole  lot  of  you.  You  can  go." 

Roland  walked  back  to  the  studies,  perplexed  and 
miserable.  The  word  "deceit"  had  cut  hard  into  him. 
He  loathed  crookedness  and  he  had  always  considered 
himself  dead  straight.  It  was  a  boast  of  his  that  he 
had  never  told  a  lie,  at  least  not  to  a  boy;  masters 
were  different.  Of  course  they  were,  and  it  was  ab- 
surd to  pretend  they  weren't.  Everyone  did  things 
that  they  wouldn't  care  to  tell  the  Chief.  There  was 
a  barrier  between.  The  relationship  was  not  open 
like  friendship.  He  saw  the  Chief's  point  of  view,  but 
he  did  not  consider  it  a  sound  one.  He  disliked  these 
fine  gradations  of  conduct,  this  talk  of  acting  a  lie; 


80  ROLAND  WHATELY 

things  were  either  black  or  white.  He  remembered 
how  the  Chief  had  once  come  round  the  upper  dormi- 
tories and  had  endeavored  to  persuade  him  that  it  was 
acting  a  lie  to  get  into  bed  without  cleaning  his  teeth. 
He  had  never  understood  why.  An  unclean  act,  per- 
haps, but  acting  a  lie !  oh,  no,  it  wouldn't  do.  It  was 
an  unfair  method  of  tackling  the  problem.  It  was 
hitting  a  man  in  the  back,  this  appeal  to  a  better 
nature.  Life  should  be  played  like  cricket,  according 
to  rules.  You  could  either  play  for  safety  and  score 
slowly,  or  you  could  run  risks  and  hit  across  straight 
half-volleys.  If  one  missed  it  one  was  out  and  that 
was  the  end  of  it.  One  didn't  talk  about  acting  a  lie 
to  the  bowler  because  one  played  at  the  ball  as  though 
it  were  outside  the  leg  stump.  Why  couldn't  the 
Chief  play  the  game  like  an  umpire?  Roland  knew 
that  he  had  done  a  thing  which,  in  the  eyes  of  au- 
thority, was  wrong.  He  admitted  that.  He  had 
known  it  was  wrong  all  the  time.  He  had  been  found 
out ;  he  was  prepared  for  punishment.  That  was  the 
process  of  life.  One  took  risks  and  paid  the  penalty. 
The  issue  was  to  Roland  childishly  simple,  and  he 
could  not  see  why  all  these  good  people  should  com- 
plicate it  so  unnecessarily  with  their  talk  of  hypoc- 
risy and  deceit. 

That  evening  the  headmaster  wrote  to  Roland's 
father: 

DEAR  MR.  WHATELY, — I  write  to  inform  you  of  a 
matter  that  will  cause  you,  I  fear,  a  good  deal  of  pain. 
I  have  discovered  that  for  the  last  year  Roland  has 
been  in  the  habit  of  going  out  for  walks  on  Sunday 
afternoons  with  a  young  girl  in  the  town,  and  that 
he  has  encouraged  another  and  younger  boy  to  accom- 
pany him.  These  walks  resulted,  I  am  sure,  in  noth- 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  81 

ing  beyond  a  little  harmless  flirtation,  and  I  do  not 
regard  the  actual  issue  as  important.  I  do  consider, 
however,  and  I  think  that  in  this  you  will  agree  with 
me,  that  Roland's  conduct  in  the  matter  is  most  re- 
prehensible. It  has  involved  a  calculated  and  pro- 
longed deception  of  you,  his  parent,  and  of  us,  his 
schoolmasters,  and  he  has  proved  himself,  I  fear,  un- 
worthy of  the  responsibility  of  prefectship  that  I  had 
hoped  to  place  in  him  next  term.  If  he  were  a 
younger  boy  the  obvious  course  would  be  a  sound 
thrashing.  But  Roland  is  too  old  for  that.  Perhaps 
he  is  too  old  to  be  at  school  at  all.  The  leaving  age 
of  nineteen  is  arbitrary.  Boys  develop  at  such  differ- 
ent ages;  and  though  I  should  not  myself  have 
thought  so  before  this  affair  arose,  it  may  very  well 
be  that  Roland  has  already  passed  beyond  the  age  at 
which  it  is  wise  and,  indeed,  safe  to  keep  him  any 
longer  at  a  school.  For  all  we  know,  this  trouble  may 
prove  to  have  been  a  blessing  in  disguise,  and  will 
have  protected  him  from  more  serious  difficulties.  At 
any  rate,  I  do  not  feel  that  I  should  be  doing  my  duty 
by  you  or  by  the  other  parents  who  place  the  welfare 
of  their  boys  in  my  hands  if  I  were  to  keep  Roland 
here  after  the  summer.  There  is,  of  course,  in  this  not 
the  least  suggestion  of  expulsion.  Roland  will  leave 
at  the  end  of  the  term  with  many  of  his  contempo- 
raries in  the  ordinary  course  of  events.  And  he  will 
become,  if  he  wishes,  as  I  hope  he  will  wish,  a  member 
of  the  old  Fernhurstian  Society.  Perhaps  you  may 
yourself  decide  to  come  down  and  have  a  talk  with 
Roland.  If  so,  perhaps  we  might  discuss  his  future 
together.  I  do  not  myself  see  why  this  should  preju- 
dice in  any  way  his  going  up  to  the  University  in  a 
year's  time.  Of  course  he  could  not  go  up  now  as  he 
has  not  yet  passed  responsions. 


82  ROLAND  WHATELY 

I  very  much  hope  that  you  will  come  down  and 
that  we  shall  be  able  to  discuss  the  whole  matter 
from  every  point  of  view.  Sincerely  yours, 

J.  F.  HARRISON. 

This  letter  arrived  at  Hammerton  by  the  evening 
post.  Mr.  Whately  had  that  morning  received  a  letter 
from  Roland,  written  before  the  row,  with  an  account 
of  a  house  game  in  which  he  had  made  59  runs  and 
taken  3  wickets.  Mr.  Whately  was  most  excited. 

"He's  really  doing  remarkably  well,"  he  said,  after 
dinner.  "He  says  that  he's  pretty  certain  for  his 
second  XI.  colors,  and  I  can't  think  why  they  don't 
give  him  a  trial  for  the  first.  I  know  that  Fernhurst 
have  a  pretty  strong  side  this  year,  but  they  ought 
to  try  all  the  men  they've  got." 

"He  ought  to  get  in  next  year  at  any  rate,"  said  his 
wife. 

"Next  year!  Of  course  there  should  be  no  doubt 
about  that  at  all.  But  I  should  like  to  see  him  get  in 
this.  It  will  make  a  big  difference  to  his  last  term  if 
he  knows  he's  safe  for  his  place.  It's  always  a  little 
worrying  having  to  play  for  one's  colors,  and  I  should 
like  him  to  have  a  really  good  last  term.  He's  de- 
served it;  he's  worked  hard;  he's  been  a  real  success 
at  Fernhurst." 

His  soliloquy  was  at  this  point  interrupted  by  the 
double  knock  of  the  postman.  Mr.  Whately  jumped 
up  at  once. 

"The  Fernhurst  postmark,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "I 
wonder  what  this  can  be  about.  The  headmaster's 
writing!" 

He  tore  open  the  envelope  eagerly  and  began  to 
read. 

"Well,  dear?"  said  his  wife." 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  83 

He  said  nothing,  but  handed  the  letter  across  to 
her.  She  read  it  through  and  then  sat  forward  hi  her 
chair,  her  hands  lying  on  her  knees. 

"Poor  darling,"  she  said.  "So  that's  why  he  saw 
so  little  of  April  last  holidays." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  that's  the  reason." 

"Do  you  think  he  was  in  love  with  her?" 

"With  April?" 

"No,  of  course  not,  dear.  With  this  girl  at  Fern- 
hurst?" 

"I  don't  know.    How  could  I  tell?" 

And  again  they  sat  in  silence.  It  was  such  a  long 
while  since  they  had  been  called  upon  to  face  a  serious 
situation.  For  many  years  now  they  had  lived  upon 
the  agreeable  surface  of  an  ordered  life.  They  were 
unprepared  for  this  disquieting  intrusion. 

"And  what's  going  to  happen  now?"  she  said  at 
last.  "I  suppose  you'll  have  to  go  down  to  school  and 
see  him." 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  Yes,  certainly.  I  ought  to  go 
down  to-morrow." 

"And  what  will  you  say  to  him?" 

"I  don't  know.    What  is  it  the  headmaster  says?" 

She  handed  him  the  letter  and  he  fumbled  with  it. 
"Here  it  is.  'I  do  not  see  myself  why  this  should 
prejudice  in  any  way  his  going  up  to  the  University.' 
That's  what  the  headmaster  says.  But  I  don't  really 
see  how  we  could  manage  it.  After  all,  what  would 
happen?  He  would  have  to  go  to  a  crammer's  and 
everyone  would  ask  questions.  We  have  always  said 
how  good  the  Fernhurst  education  is,  and  now  they'll 
begin  to  wonder  why  we've  changed  our  minds.  If  we 
take  Roland  away  and  send  him  to  a  crammer's  they 
would  be  sure  to  think  something  was  up.  You  know 
what  people  are.  It  would  never  do." 


84  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  But  it  seems  rather  hard  on 
Roland  if  he's  got  to  give  up  Oxford." 

"Well,  it  wiU  be  his  own  fault,  won't  it?" 

"We  haven't  heard  the  whole  story  yet." 

"I  know ;  but  what's  the  good  of  discussing  it?  He 
knew  he  was  doing  something  he  ought  not  to  be 
doing.  He  can't  expect  not  to  have  to  pay  for  it." 

And  there  was  another  pause. 

"He  was  doing  so  well,  too,"  she  said. 

"He  would  have  been  a  prefect  after  the  summer. 
He  would  have  been  captain  of  his  house.  We  should 
have  been  so  proud  of  him." 

"And  it's  all  over  now." 

They  did  not  discuss  the  actual  trouble.  He  knew 
that  on  the  next  day  he  would  have  to  go  over  the 
whole  thing  with  Roland,  and  he  wanted  to  be  able  to 
think  it  out  in  quiet.  They  were  practical  people, 
who  had  spent  the  last  fifteen  years  discussing  the 
practical  affairs  of  ways  and  means.  They  had  come 
nearest  to  each  other  when  they  had  sat  before  their 
account-books  in  the  evening,  balancing  one  column 
with  another,  and  at  the  end  of  it  looking  each  other 
in  the  face,  agreeing  that  they  would  have  to  "cut 
down  this  expense,"  and  that  they  could  "save  a  little 
there."  The  love  of  the  senses  had  died  out  quickly 
between  them,  but  its  place  had  been  taken  by  a  deep 
affection,  by  the  steady  accumulation  of  small  inci- 
dents of  loyalty  and  unselfishness,  of  difficulties  faced 
and  fought  together.  They  had  never  ventured  upon 
first  principles.  They  had  fixed  their  attention  upon 
the  immediate  necessities  of  the  moment. 

And  now,  although  Roland's  moral  welfare  was  a 
deep  responsibility  to  them,  they  spoke  only  of  his 
career  and  of  how  they  must  shape  it  to  fit  the  new 
requirements.  Mr.  Whately  thought  that  he  might 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  85 

be  able  to  find  a  post  for  him  in  the  bank.  But  his 
wife  was  very  much  against  it. 

"Oh,  no,  dear,  that  would  be  terrible.  Roland  could 
never  stand  it;  he's  such  an  open-air  person.  I  can't 
bear  the  idea  of  his  being  cooped  up  at  a  desk  all 
his  days." 

"That's  what  my  life's  been." 

"I  know;  but,  Roland.  Surely  we  can  find  some- 
thing better  for  him  than  that." 

"I'll  try.  I  don't  know.  Things  like  the  Civil 
Service  are  impossible  for  him  now,  and  the  Army's 
no  use,  and  I've  got  no  influence  in  the  City." 

"But  you  must  try,  really,  dear.  It's  awful  to  think 
of  him  committed  to  a  bank  for  the  rest  of  his  life 
just  when  he  was  doing  so  well." 

"All  right.    I'll  do  my  best." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  said  that  he  was  tired  and 
would  go  to  bed.  At  the  door  he  paused,  walked  back 
into  the  room  and  stood  behind  his  wife.  He  wanted 
to  say  something  to  show  that  he  appreciated  her 
sympathy,  that  he  was  glad  she  was  beside  him  in  this 
disappointment,  this  hour  of  trouble.  But  he  did  not 
know  what  to  say.  He  stretched  out  a  hand  timidly 
and  touched  her  hair.  She  turned  and  looked  up  at 
him,  and  without  a  word  said  put  her  arms  slowly 
about  his  neck,  drew  his  hand  down  to  her  and  kissed 
him.  For  a  full  minute  he  was  pressed  against  her. 
"Dear,"  he  murmured,  and  though  he  mounted  the 
stairs  sadly,  he  felt  strengthened  by  that  embrace  of 
mutual  disappointment. 

He  set  off  very  early  next  morning,  for  he  would 
have  to  go  down  to  the  bank  and  make  arrangements 
for  his  absence.  He  had  hoped  that  Roland  would 
have  written  to  them,  but  the  post  brought  only  a 
circular  from  a  turf  accountant. 


86  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Have  you  decided  what  you  are  going  to  say  to 
him?"  his  wife  asked. 

"Not  yet.  I  shall  think  it  out  in  the  train.  I  shall 
be  able  to  say  the  right  thing  when  the  time  comes." 

"You  won't  be  hard  to  him.  I  expect  he's  very 
miserable." 

It  was  a  bad  day  for  Mr.  Whately.  During  the  long 
train  journey  through  fields  and  villages,  vivid  in  the 
bright  June  sunlight,  he  wondered  in  what  spirit  he 
should  receive  his  son.  Roland  would  be  no  doubt 
waiting  for  him  at  the  station.  What  would  they  say 
to  each  other?  How  would  they  begin?  He  would 
have  lunch,  of  course,  at  the  Eversham  Hotel,  and 
then,  he  supposed,  he  would  have  to  see  the  head- 
master. That  would  be  very  difficult.  He  always  felt 
shy  in  the  headmaster's  presence.  The  headmaster 
was  such  an  aristocrat ;  he  was  stamped  with  the  hall- 
mark of  Eton  and  Balliol,  while  he  himself  was  the 
manager  of  a  bank  in  London.  He  was  always  aware 
of  his  social  inferiority  in  that  book-lined  study,  with 
the  five  austere  reproductions  of  Greek  sculpture. 
The  interview  would  be  very  difficult.  But  the  head- 
master would  at  least  do  most  of  the  talking ;  whereas 
with  Roland  .  .  .  Mr.  Whately  shifted  uneasily  in 
his  corner  seat.  What  on  earth  was  he  going  to  say? 
Something,  surely,  about  the  moral  significance  of 
the  act.  Roland  must  realize  that  he  was  guilty  of 
really  unmoral  conduct,  and  yet  how  was  he  to  be 
made  to  realize  it?  What  arguments  must  be  pro- 
duced? Wherein  lay  the  harm  of  calf  love?  And 
looking  back  over  his  own  life  Mr.  Whately  could 
not  see  that  there  was  any  particular  vice  attached  to 
it.  It  was  absurd  and  preposterous,  but  it  was  very 
pleasant.  He  remembered  how  he  had  once  fancied 
himself  in  love  with  his  grandmother's  housemaid. 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  87 

He  used  to  get  up  early  in  the  morning  so  that  he 
could  sit  with  her  while  she  laid  the  grate,  and  he  had 
knelt  down  beside  her  and  joined  his  breath  with 
hers  in  a  fierce  attempt  to  kindle  the  timid  flame.  He 
had  never  kissed  her,  but  she  had  let  him  hold  her 
hand,  and  the  summer  holidays  had  passed  in  deli- 
cious reveries.  He  remembered  also  how,  a  little 
later,  he  had  fallen  desperately  in  love  with  the  girl 
at  the  tobacconist's,  and  he  could  still  recall  the 
breathless  excitement  of  that  morning  when  he  had 
come  into  the  shop  and  found  it  empty.  For  a  sec- 
ond she  had  listened  at  the  door  leading  to  the  private 
part  of  the  house  and  had  then  leaned  forward  over 
the  counter:  "Quick,"  she  had  whispered. 

Mr.  Whately  smiled  at  the  recollection  and  then 
remembered  suddenly  for  what  cause  he  was  traveling 
down  to  Fernhurst.  "I  must  say  something  to  him. 
What  shall  I  say?"  And  for  want  of  any  better  argu- 
ment he  began  to  adapt  a  speech  that  he  had  heard 
spoken  a  few  weeks  earlier  hi  a  melodrama  at  the 
Aldwich.  The  hero,  a  soldier,  had  come  home  from 
the  war  to  find  his  betrothed  in  the  arms  of  another, 
and  she  had  protested  that  it  was  him  alone  she  loved, 
and  that  she  was  playing  with  the  other;  but  the 
returned  warrior  had  delivered  himself  of  an  oration 
on  the  eternal  sanctity  of  love.  "Love  cannot  be 
divided  like  a  worm  and  continue  to  exist.  It  is  not 
a  game."  There  was  something  in  that  argument, 
and  Mr.  Whately  decided  to  tell  Roland  that  love 
came  only  once  in  a  man's  life,  and  that  he  must  re- 
serve himself  for  that  one  occasion.  "If  you  make 
love  to  every  girl  you  meet,  you  will  spoil  yourself 
for  the  real  love  affair.  It  will  be  the  removal  of  a 
shovelful  of  gravel  from  a  large  pile.  One  shovelful 
appears  to  make  no  difference,  but  in  the  end  the  pile 


88  ROLAND  WHATELY 

of  gravel  disappears."  That  is  what  he  would  say  to 
Roland.  And  because  the  idea  seemed  suitable,  he 
did  not  pause  to  consider  whether  or  not  it  was 
founded  upon  truth.  He  lay  back  in  his  corner  seat 
and  began  to  arrange  his  ideas  according  to  that  line 
of  persuasion. 

But  all  this  fine  flow  of  wit  and  logic  was  dispelled 
when  the  train  drew  up  at  Fernhurst  station  and  Mr. 
Whately  descended  from  the  carriage  to  find  Roland 
waiting  for  him  on  the  platform. 

"Hullo!  father,"  he  said,  and  the  two  of  them 
walked  in  silence  out  of  the  station,  and  turned  into 
the  Eversham  Rooms. 

"I've  booked  a  table  at  the  hotel,"  said  Roland. 

"Good." 

"I  expect  you're  feeling  a  bit  hungry  after  your 
journey,  aren't  you,  father?" 

"Yes,  I  am  a  bit." 

"Not  a  bad  day  for  traveling,  though?" 

"No,  it  was  very  jolly.  The  country  was  beautiful 
all  the  way  down.  It's  such  a  relief  to  be  able  to  get 
out  of  London  for  a  bit." 

"I  expect  it  must  be." 

"It's  quite  a  treat  to  be  able  to  come  here" ;  and  so 
nervous  was  he  that  he  failed  to  appreciate  the  irony 
of  his  last  statement. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  hotel.  Roland 
walked  with  a  cheerful  confidence  into  the  entrance, 
nodded  to  the  porter,  hung  his  straw  hat  upon  the 
rack,  and  suggested  a  wash. 

Mr.  Whately  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass  as  he 
dried  his  hands.  It  was  a  withered  face  that  looked 
back  at  him;  the  face  of  a  bank  clerk  who  had  risen 
with  some  industry  and  much  privation  to  a  position 
of  authority;  a  face  that  was  lined  and  marked  and 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  89 

undistinguished ;  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  never  as- 
serted himself.  Mr.  Whately  turned  from  his  own 
reflection  and  looked  at  his  son,  so  strong,  and  fresh 
and  eager;  unmarked  as  yet  by  trouble  and  adversity. 
Who  was  he,  a  scrubby,  middle-aged  little  man,  emp- 
tied of  energy  and  faith,  with  his  life  behind  him — 
who  was  he  to  impose  his  will  on  anyone? 

"Finished,  father?" 

He  followed  his  son  into  the  dining  room  and 
picked  up  the  menu;  but  he  did  not  know  what  to 
choose,  and  handed  the  card  across  to  Roland.  Ro- 
land ordered  the  meal;  the  waiter  rubbed  his  hands, 
and  father  and  son  sat  opposite  each  other,  oppressed 
by  a  situation  that  was  new  to  them.  Roland  waited 
for  his  father  to  begin.  During  the  last  thirty-six 
hours  he  had  been  interviewed  by  three  different 
masters,  all  of  whom  had,  in  their  way,  tried  to  im- 
press upon  him  the  enormity  of  his  offense.  He  was 
by  now  a  little  tired  of  the  subject.  He  wanted  to 
know  what  punishment  had  been  fixed  for  him.  He 
had  heard  enough  of  the  moral  aspect  of  the  case. 
"These  people  treat  me  as  though  I  were  a  fool/'  he 
had  said  to  Brewster.  "To  hear  the  way  they  talked 
one  would  imagine  that  I  had  never  thought  about 
the  damnable  business  at  all.  They  seem  to  expect 
me  to  fall  down,  like  St.  Paul  before  Damascus,  and 
exclaim:  'Now,  all  is  clear  to  me!'  But,  damn  it 
all,  I  knew  what  I  was  doing.  I'd  thought  it  all  out. 
I'm  not  going  to  do  the  conversion  stunt  just  because 
I've  been  found  out."  He  expected  his  father  to  go 
over  the  old  ground — influence,  position,  responsi- 
bility. He  prepared  himself  to  listen.  But  as  his 
father  did  not  begin,  and  as  the  soup  did  not  arrive, 
Roland  felt  it  was  incumbent  upon  him  to  say  some- 
thing. 


90  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"A  great  game  that  against  Yorkshire?"  he  said. 

"What!    Which  game?" 

"Don't  you  remember,  about  a  fortnight  ago,  the 
Middlesex  and  Yorkshire  match  ?  Middlesex  had  over 
two  hundred  to  get  and  only  three  hours  to  get  them 
in.  They're  a  fine  side  this  year." 

And  within  two  minutes  they  were  discussing 
cricket  as  they  had  discussed  it  so  often  before.  At 
first  they  talked  to  cover  their  embarrassment,  but 
soon  they  had  become  really  interested  in  the  sub- 
ject. 

"And  what  chance  do  you  think  you  have  of  get- 
ting in  the  XL?  Surely  they  ought  to  give  you  a 
trial  soon." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  father;  I'm  not  much  class,  and 
there  are  several  old  colors.  I  ought  to  get  my  sec- 
onds all  right,  and  next  season  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  realizing  suddenly  that  he  did  not  as 
yet  know  whether  there  would  be  any  next  season  for 
him,  and  quickly  changed  the  conversation,  telling 
his  father  of  a  splendid  rag  that  the  Lower  Fourth 
had  organized  for  the  last  Saturday  of  the  term. 

Sooner  or  later  the  all-important  question  had  to 
be  tackled,  but  by  the  time  lunch  had  finished,  son 
and  father  had  established  their  old  intimacy  of  quiet 
conversation,  and  they  were  ready  to  face  and,  if 
need  be,  to  dismiss  the  violent  intrusion  of  the  trouble. 
They  walked  up  and  down  the  hotel  grounds,  Mr. 
Whately  wondering  at  what  exact  point  he  should 
dab  in  his  carefully  constructed  argument.  Then 
there  came  a  pause,  into  which  his  voice  broke  sud- 
denly: 

"You  know,  Roland,  about  this  business  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  father." 

"Well,  I  mean,  going  out  with  a  girl  in  the  town. 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  91 

Do  you  think  it's  .  .  ."  He  paused.  After  all,  he 
did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"I  know,  father.  I  know."  And  looking  at  each 
other  they  realized  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
them  to  discuss  it.  Their  relationship  was  at  stake. 
It  had  no  technique  to  deal  with  the  situation.  And 
Roland  asked,  as  his  mother  had  asked,  "What's  go- 
ing to  happen,  father?" 

For  answer,  Mr.  Whately  put  his  hand  into  his 
pocket,  took  out  the  headmaster's  letter  and  gave  it 
to  Roland.  Roland  read  it  through  and  then  handed 
it  back.  "Not  a  bad  fellow,  the  Chief,"  he  said,  and 
they  walked  up  and  down  the  path  in  silence. 

"It's  a  disappointment,"  said  Roland. 

"For  all  of  us." 

"I  suppose  so." 

And  after  another  pause :  "What's  going  to  happen 
to  me  at  the  end  of  the  term?" 

"That's  what  I've  got  to  decide.  I  suggested  a 
bank,  but  your  mother  was  very  much  against  it." 

"Oh,  not  the  bank,  father!" 

"Well,  I'll  do  my  best  for  you,  but  it'll  be  difficult. 
Oxford's  out  of  the  question.  You  can  see  that,  can't 
you?  I  should  have  to  send  you  to  a  crammer,  and 
everyone  would  talk.  It  would  be  sure  to  leak  out. 
And  we  don't  want  anything  like  that  to  happen, 
because  they  would  be  sure  to  think  it  was  some- 
thing worse  than  it  really  was.  I'm  afraid  Oxford's 
got  to  go.  Your  mother  agreed  with  me  about  that." 

"I'm  sure  you're  right,  father." 

"But  I  don't  know  what  else  there  is,  Roland.  I 
shall  have  to  ask  the  headmaster." 

But  the  headmaster  was  not  very  helpful.  He  was 
kind  and  sympathetic.  He  spoke  of  the  moral  sig- 
nificance of  the  situation  and  the  eventual  service 


92  ROLAND  WHATELY 

that  this  trouble  might  prove  to  have  been.  He 
wished  Roland  the  very  best  of  luck.  He  didn't  agree 
with  Mr.  Whately  about  the  impossibility  of  Oxford, 
but  he  appreciated  Mr.  Whately's  point  of  view. 
After  all,  Mr.  Whately  knew  his  own  son  better  than 
he  did.  Was  there  anything  more  Mr.  Whately  would 
wish  to  ask  him?  He  would  be  always  very  glad  to 
give  Mr.  Whately  any  advice  or  help  that  lay  within 
him.  He  hoped  Mr.  Whately  would  have  a  pleasant 
journey  back  to  town. 

"Dorset's  at  its  best  in  June,"  he  said,  as  he  es- 
corted Mr.  Whately  to  the  door. 

There  was  an  hour  to  put  in  before  the  departure 
of  the  London  train,  and  Roland  and  his  father 
walked  down  to  the  cricket  field.  They  sat  on  the 
grass  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  that  cluster  round  the 
pavilion,  and  watched  the  lazy  progress  of  the  various 
games  that  were  scattered  round  the  large  high- 
walled  ground.  It  was  a  pretty  sight — the  green 
fields,  the  white  flannels,  the  mild  sunshine  of  early 
summer.  It  was  bitter  to  Mr.  Whately  that  he  would 
never  again  see  Fernhurst.  For  that  was  what  Ro- 
land's trouble  meant  to  him.  And  the  reflection  sad- 
dened his  last  hour  with  his  son. 

When  Roland  had  left  him  at  the  station  he  walked 
up  and  down  the  platform  in  the  grip  of  a  deep  melan- 
choly. On  such  an  afternoon,  five  years  ago,  he  had 
seen  Fernhurst  for  the  first  time.  He  had  brought 
Roland  down  to  try  for  a  scholarship  and  they  had 
stayed  for  three  days  together  at  the  Eversham  Hotel. 
Fernhurst  had  been  full  of  promise  for  them  then.  He 
had  not  been  to  a  public  school  himself.  When  he 
was  a  boy  the  public  school  system  had  indeed  hardly 
begun  to  impose  its  autocracy  on  the  lower  middle 
classes,  and  he  had  always  felt  himself  at  a  disad- 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  93 

vantage  because  he  had  been  educated  at  Burstock 
Grammar  School.  He  had  been  desperately  anxious 
for  Roland  to  make  a  success  of  Fernhurst.  He  had 
looked  forward  to  the  day  when  his  son  would  be  an 
important  figure  in  the  school,  and  when  he  himself 
would  become  important  as  Whately's  father.  How 
proud  he  would  feel  when  he  would  walk  down  to 
the  field  in  the  company  of  a  double-first.  He  would 
come  down  to  "commem"  and  give  a  luncheon  party 
at  the  Eversham  Hotel,  and  the  masters  would  come 
and  speak  to  him  and  congratulate  him  on  his  son's 
performance:  "A  wonderful  game  of  his  last  week 
against  Tonwich."  And  during  the  last  eighteen 
months  it  had  indeed  seemed  that  these  dreams  were 
to  be  realized.  Roland  had  his  colors  at  football, 
he  was  in  the  Sixth,  a  certainty  for  his  seconds  at 
cricket:  after  the  summer  he  would  be  a  prefect  and 
captain  of  games  in  the  house.  And  now  it  was  all 
over.  As  far  as  he  was  concerned,  Fernhurst  was  fin- 
ished. His  life  would  be  empty  now  without  the  let- 
ter every  Monday  morning  telling  of  Roland's  place 
in  form,  of  his  scores  during  the  week,  and  all  the 
latest  news  of  a  vivid  communal  life.  That  was  over. 
And  as  Mr.  Whately  mounted  the  tram,  closed  the 
door  and  sat  back  against  the  carriage,  he  felt  as 
though  he  were  undergoing  an  operation;  a  part  of 
his  being  was  being  wrenched  from  him. 

Roland  felt  none  of  this  despondency.  After  saying 
good-by  to  his  father  he  walked  gayly  up  the  Ever- 
sham  Road.  The  brown  stone  of  the  Abbey  tower  was 
turning  to  gold  in  the  late  sunlight,  a  cool  wind  was 
blowing,  the  sky  was  blue.  What  did  this  trouble 
matter  to  him?  Had  he  not  strength  and  faith  and 
time  in  plenty  to  repair  it?  He  had  wearied  of  school, 
he  reminded  himself.  He  had  felt  caged  this  last 


94  ROLAND  WHATELY 

year;  he  had  wanted  freedom;  he  had  outgrown  the 
narrow  discipline  of  the  field  and  classroom.  Next 
term  he  would  be  a  man  and  not  a  schoolboy.  He 
flung  back  his  shoulders  as  though  he  were  ridding 
them  of  a  burden. 

There  was  still  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  put  in 
before  lock-up,  and  he  walked  up  past  the  big  school 
towards  the  hill.  He  thought  he  would  like  to  tell 
Brewster  what  had  happened.  He  found  him  in  his 
study,  and  with  him  an  old  boy,  Gerald  Marston,  who 
had  been  playing  against  the  school  that  afternoon. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "So  here's  the  criminal.  I've 
just  been  hearing  all  about  you.  Come  along  and  sit 
down." 

Roland  was  flattered  at  Marston's  interest  in  his 
escapade.  He  had  hardly  known  him  at  all  when  he 
had  been  at  Fernhurst.  Marston  had  been  in  another 
house,  was  two  years  his  senior,  and,  in  addition,  a 
double  first.  Probably  it  was  the  first  time  they  had 
even  spoken  to  each  other. 

"Oh,  yes,  we've  been  having  an  exciting  time," 
laughed  Roland. 

"And  what's  going  to  be  the  end  of  it?" 

"Well,  as  far  as  I  can  gather,  the  school  will  meet 
without  me  next  September." 

"The  sack?" 

"Well,  hardly  that;  the  embroidered  bag." 

They  talked  and  laughed.  Marston  was  very  jolly  ; 
he  gave  himself  no  airs,  and  Roland  could  hardly  real- 
ize that  three  years  ago  he  had  been  frightened  of 
him,  that  when  Marston  had  passed  him  in  thfe 
cloister  he  had  lowered  his  voice,  and  as  often  as  not 
had  stopped  speaking  till  he  had  gone  by. 

"And  what's  going  to  happen  to  you  now?"  asked 
Marston. 


A  SORRY  BUSINESS  95 

"That's  just  what  I  don't  know.  My  pater  talked 
about  my  going  into  a  bank." 

"But  you'd  hate  that,  wouldn't  you?" 

"I'm  not  too  keen  on  it." 

"Lord,  no!  I  should  think  not.  And  there's  no 
real  future  in  it.  You  ought  to  go  into  the  City. 
There's  excitement  there,  and  big  business.  You  don't 
want  to  waste  your  life  like  that." 

It  happens  sometimes  that  we  meet  a  person  whom 
we  seem  to  have  known  all  our  life,  and  by  the  time 
the  clock  began  to  strike  the  quarter,  Roland  felt  that 
he  and  Marston  were  old  friends. 

"A  good  fellow  that,"  said  Marston,  after  he  had 
gone,  "and  a  bit  of  a  sport  too,  by  all  accounts.  I 
must  try  and  see  more  of  him." 

And  in  his  study  Roland  had  picked  up  a  calendar 
and  was  counting  the  days  that  lay  between  him  and 
Freedom. 


PART  H 

THE  RIVAL  FORCES 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  FORTUNATE  MEETING 

MR.  WHATELY'S  one  idea  on  his  return  to 
Hammerton  was  to  hide  the  fact  that  Roland's 
sudden  leaving  was  the  result  of  a  scandal.  He  wished 
the  decision  in  no  way  to  seem  unpremeditated.  Two 
days  later,  therefore,  he  went  round  to  the  Curtises' 
and  prepared  the  way  by  a  discussion  of  the  value  of 
university  training. 

"Really,  you  know,  Mrs.  Curtis,"  he  said,  "I  very 
much  doubt  whether  Oxford  is  as  useful  as  we  some- 
times think  it  is.  What  will  Roland  be  able  to  do 
afterwards?  If  I  know  Roland  he  will  do  precious 
little  work.  He  is  not  very  clever ;  I  doubt  if  he  will 
get  into  the  Civil  Service,  and  what  else  is  there  open 
to  him?  Nothing,  perhaps,  except  schoolmastering, 
and  he  would  not  be  much  use  at  that.  I  am  not  at 
all  certain  that  it  is  not  wiser,  on  the  whole,  to  take 
a  boy  away  at  about  seventeen  or  eighteen,  send  him 
abroad  for  a  couple  of  months  and  then  put  him  into 
business." 

Mrs.  Curtis  was  not  a  little  surprised.  For  a  good 
sixteen  years  Mr.  Whately  had  refused  to  consider  the 
possibility  of  any  education  for  Roland  other  than 
Fernhurst  and  Brasenose. 

"But  you  are  not  thinking  of  taking  him  away  from 
Fernhurst  and  not  sending  him  to  Brasenose?"  she 
said. 

99 


100  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Curtis,  but  I  have  been  thinking  that 
if  we  could  do  things  all  over  again  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  but  that's  not  the  way  I  should  have  arranged 
his  education." 

That  was  the  first  step. 

A  few  nights  later  he  came  round  again,  and  again 
talked  of  the  value  of  two  or  three  months  in  France. 

"What  does  Roland  think  about  it,  Mr.  Whately?" 
she  asked. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  only  heard  from  Roland  on 
the  subject  to-day;  he  seems  quite  keen  on  it.  I  just 
threw  it  out  as  a  suggestion  to  him.  I  pointed  out 
that  most  of  his  friends  will  have  left  at  the  end  of 
the  term,  that  next  year  he  would  be  rather  lonely, 
and  that  there  would  not  be  anything  very  much  for 
him  to  do  when  he  came  down  from  Oxford.  He 
seemed  to  agree  with  me." 

Mrs.  Curtis,  however,  was  no  fool.  She  had  spent 
the  greater  part  of  her  middle  age  sitting  in  front  of 
a  fire  watching  life  drift  past  her,  and  her  one  amuse- 
ment had  been  the  examination  of  the  motives  and 
actions  of  her  friends. 

"There  is  something  rather  curious  here,"  she  said 
that  evening  to  her  husband.  "As  long  as  we  have 
known  the  Whatelys  they  have  insisted  on  the  value 
of  public  school  and  university  education.  Now, 
quite  suddenly,  they  have  turned  round,  and  they  are 
talking  about  business  and  commerce  and  the  value 
of  French." 

Mr.  Curtis,  who  was  a  credulous  creature,  saw  no 
reason  why  they  should  not  change  their  minds  if 
they  wanted  to. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "it  is  quite  true  that  Latin  and 
Greek  are  of  very  little  use  to  anyone  in  the  City." 

But  Mrs.  Curtis  refused  to  be  convinced. 


A  FORTUNATE  MEETING  101 

"I  do  not  care  what  you  say,"  she  said.  "You  just 
wait  and  see." 

And,  sure  enough,  within  a  week  Mr.  Whately  had 
confessed  his  intention  of  taking  Roland  away  from 
Fernhurst  at  the  end  of  the  term. 

"And  you  are  going  to  send  him  to  France?"  said 
Mrs.  Curtis. 

"I  am  not  quite  certain  about  that,"  he  said.  "I 
am  going  to  look  round  first  to  see  if  I  can't  get  him  a 
job  at  once.  We  both  agree  that  another  year  at 
Fernhurst  would  be  a  waste  of  tune." 

Mrs.  Curtis  smiled  pleasantly.  As  soon  as  he  had 
gone  she  expressed  herself  forcibly. 

"I  do  not  believe  for  a  moment,"  she  insisted,  "that 
Mr.  Whately  has  changed  his  mind  without  some 
pretty  strong  reason.  He  was  frightfully  anxious  to 
see  Roland  captain  of  his  house.  He  was  so  proud  of 
everything  he  did  at  Fernhurst.  There  must  be  a  row 
or  something;  unless,  of  course,  he  has  lost  his 
money." 

But  that  idea  Mr.  Curtis  pooh-poohed. 

"My  dear  Edith,"  he  said,  "that  is  quite  impossible. 
You  know  that  Whately's  got  a  good  salaried  post  in 
the  bank.  He  has  got  no  private  means  to  lose  and  he 
is  not  the  sort  of  man  to  live  above  his  income.  It  is 
certainly  not  money.  I  don't  see  why  a  man  should 
not  change  his  mind  if  he  wants  to." 

Mrs.  Curtis  again  refused  to  be  convinced. 

"You  wouldn't,"  she  said. 

April  was  of  the  same  opinion.  She  knew  perfectly 
well  that  Roland,  of  his  own  free  will,  would  never 
have  agreed  to  such  a  plan.  There  must  be  trouble 
of  some  sort  or  other,  she  said  to  herself,  and  Roland 
instantly  became  more  interesting  in  her  eyes.  She 
wondered  what  he  had  done.  Her  knowledge  of  school 


102  ROLAND  WHATELY 

life  was  based  mainly  upon  the  stories  of  Talbot 
Baines  Reid,  and  she  began  to  picture  some  adven- 
ture in  which  he  had  taken  the  blame  upon  his  own 
shoulders.  A  friend  of  his  had  contracted  liabilities 
at  the  Eversham  Arms  and  Roland  had  become  in- 
volved; or  perhaps  someone  had  endeavored  to  steal 
the  papers  of  a  Scholarship  examination  and  Roland 
had  been  falsely  accused.  She  could  not  imagine  that 
Roland  had  himself  done  anything  dishonorable,  and 
she  could  not  be  expected  to  know  the  usual  cause  for 
which  boys  are  suddenly  removed  from  their  school. 
Ralph  Richmond  was  the  only  person  who  was  likely 
to  know  the  true  story,  and  to  him  she  went. 

Now,  there  is  in  the  Latin  Grammar  a  morality  con- 
tamed  in  an  example  of  a  conditional  sentence  which 
runs  in  the  following  words:  "Even  though  they  are 
silent  they  say  enough."  In  spite  of  Ralph's  desperate 
efforts  to  assume  ignorance  it  was  quite  obvious  to 
April  that  he  knew  all  about  it,  also  that  it  was  some- 
thing that  Roland  would  not  want  her  to  know.  She 
was  puzzled  and  distressed.  If  there  had  been  no 
embarrassment  between  them  during  the  holidays  she 
would  probably  have  written  to  Roland  and  asked 
him  about  it,  but  under  the  conditions  she  felt  that 
this  was  impossible. 

"I  shall  have  to  wait  till  he  returns,"  she  said. 
"Perhaps  he  will  tell  me  of  his  own  accord." 

But  when  Roland  came  home  he  showed  not  the 
slightest  inclination  to  tell  her  anything.  If  he  were 
acting  a  part  he  was  acting  it  extraordinarily  well.  He 
told  her  how  glad  he  was  that  he  was  leaving  Fern- 
hurst.  "One  outgrows  school,"  he  said.  "It  is  all 
right  for  a  bit.  It  is  great  fun  when  you  are  a  fag 
and  when  you  are  half-way  up ;  but  it  is  not  worth  it 
when  you  have  got  responsibilities.  And  as  I  went 


A  FORTUNATE  MEETING  103 

there  at  thirteen — a  year  earlier  than  most  people — 
nearly  all  my  friends  will  have  left.  I  should  have 
been  very  lonely  next  term.  I  think  I  am  well  out 
of  it." 

April  reminded  him  of  his  eagerness  to  go  to  Ox- 
ford. That  objection,  too,  he  managed  to  brush 
aside. 

"Oxford,"  he  said;  "that  is  nothing  but  school  over 
again.  It  is  masters  and  work  and  regulations.  I  am 
very  glad  it  is  over." 

For  a  while  she  was  almost  tempted  to  believe  he 
was  telling  her  the  truth,  but  as  August  passed  she 
noticed  that  Roland  seemed  less  satisfied  with  his 
prospects.  He  spoke  with  diminishing  enthusiasm  of 
the  freedom  of  an  office.  Indeed,  whenever  she  intro- 
duced the  subject  he  changed  it  quickly. 

"I  expect  father  will  find  me  something  decent 
soon,"  he  would  say,  and  began  to  talk  of  cricket  or 
of  some  rag  that  he  remembered. 

But  Mr.  Whately  was  not  finding  it  easy  to  procure 
a  post  for  his  son.  Roland,  after  all,  possessed  no 
special  qualifications.  He  had  been  in  the  Sixth  Form 
of  a  public  school,  but  he  had  not  been  a  particularly 
brilliant  member  of  it.  He  had  passed  no  standard 
examinations.  He  was  too  young  for  any  important 
competitive  work  and  Mr.  Whately  had  very  few  in- 
fluential friends.  Roland  began  to  see  before  him  the 
prospect  of  long  days  spent  in  a  bank — a  dismal 
prospect.  "What  will  it  lead  to,  father?"  he  used  to 
ask,  and  Mr.  Whately  had  not  been  able  to  hold  out 
very  much  encouragement. 

"Well,  I  suppose  in  time  if  you  work  well  you  would 
become  a  manager.  If  you  do  anything  really  bril- 
liant you  might  be  given  some  post  of  central  organ- 
ization." 


104.  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"But  it  is  not  very  likely,  is  it,  father?"  said  Roland. 

"Not  very  likely;  no." 

The  years  seemed  mapped  out  before  him  and  he 
found  it  difficult  to  maintain  his  pose  of  complacent 
satisfaction,  so  that  one  evening,  when  he  felt  more 
than  ordinarily  depressed,  and  when  the  need  of 
sympathy  became  irresistible,  he  found  himself  tell- 
ing April  the  story  of  his  trouble. 

She  listened  to  him  quietly,  sitting  huddled  up  in 
the  window-seat,  her  knees  drawn  up  towards  her, 
her  hands  clasped  beneath  them.  She  said  nothing 
for  a  while  after  he  had  finished. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "that's  the  story.  You 
know  all  about  it  now." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  There  was  in  her  eyes 
neither  annoyance  nor  repulsion  nor  contempt,  but 
only  interest  and  sympathy. 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  Roland?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  And  because  this  hap- 
pened to  be  the  real  reason,  and  because  he  felt  it  to 
be  inadequate,  he  searched  his  memory  for  some  more 
plausible  account. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "It  seemed  to  happen 
this  way:  Things  were  awfully  dull  at  school,  and 
then,  during  the  Christmas  holidays,  we  had  that 
row.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  I  think  I  should  have 
chucked  it  up  altogether.  But  you  didn't  seem  to 
care  for  me;  it  didn't  seem  to  matter  much  either 
way;  and — well  one  drifts  into  these  things." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"But  I  don't  understand,  Roland.  Do  you  mean  to 
say  if  we  hadn't  had  that  row  at  Christmas  nothing 
of  this  would  have  happened?" 

Because  their  disagreement  had  not  been  without 
its  influence  on  Roland's  general  attitude  towards  his 


A  FORTUNATE  MEETING  105 

school  romance,  and  because  Roland  was  always  at 
the  mercy  of  the  immediate  influence,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  April  was  unable  to  think  that  anything  but 
April  could  have  influenced  him,  he  mistook  the  part 
for  the  whole,  and  assured  her  that  if  they  had  not 
had  that  quarrel  at  the  dance  he  would  have  given 
up  Dolly  altogether.  And  because  the  situation  was 
one  they  had  often  met  in  plays  and  stories  they  ac- 
cepted it  as  the  truth. 

"It's  all  my  fault,"  she  said,  "really  all  my  fault." 
And  turning  her  head  away  from  him  she  allowed  her 
thoughts  to  travel  back  to  that  ineffectual  hour  of 
loneliness  and  resignation.  "I  can  do  nothing,  noth- 
ing myself,"  she  said.  "I  can  only  spoil  things  for 
other  people." 

At  the  time  Roland  was  disappointed,  but  two 
hours  later  he  decided  that  he  was,  on  the  whole,  re- 
lieved that  Mrs.  Curtis  should  have  chosen  that  par- 
ticular moment  to  return  from  her  afternoon  call. 
In  another  moment  he  would  have  been  saying  things 
that  would  have  complicated  life  most  confoundedly. 
April  had  been  very  near  tears;  he  disliked  heroics. 
He  would  have  had  to  do  something  to  console  her. 
He  would  probably  have  said  to  her  a  great  many 
things  that  at  the  time  would  have  seemed  to  him 
true,  but  which  afterwards  he  would  have  regretted. 
He  had  sufficient  worries  of  his  own  already. 

At  home  life  was  not  made  easy  for  Roland.  He 
received  little  sympathy.  Ralph  told  him  that  he 
deserved  all  he  had  got  and  had  been  lucky  to  get  off 
so  cheaply.  His  father  repeated  a  number  of  moral 
platitudes,  the  source  of  which  Roland  was  able  to 
recognize. 

"After  all,"  said  Mr.  Whately,  "I  have  been  in  a 
bank  all  my  life ;  I  have  not  done  badly  in  it,  and  you, 


106  ROLAND  WHATELY 

with  your  education  and  advantages,  should  be  able  to 
do  much  better." 

This  was  a  line  of  argument  which  did  not  appeal  to 
Roland.  He  was  very  fond  of  his  father,  but  he  had 
always  regarded  his  manner  of  life  as  a  fate,  at  all 
costs,  to  be  avoided.  And  though  his  mother  in  his 
presence  endeavored  to  make  him  believe  that  all 
was  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds, 
when  she  was  alone  with  her  husband  she  saw  only 
her  son's  point  of  view. 

"If  this  is  all  we  have  got  to  offer  him,"  she  said, 
"all  the  money  and  time  we  have  spent  will  be  wasted. 
If  a  desk  at  a  bank  is  going  to  be  the  end  of  it,  he 
might  just  as  well  have  gone  to  a  day  school,  and  all 
the  extra  money  we  have  spent  could  have  been  put 
away  for  him  in  a  bank." 

Mr.  Whately  reminded  her  that  the  change  in 
their  plans  was  due  entirely  to  Roland. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  "that  is  all  very 
well.  But  it  is  a  cruel  shame  that  a  boy's  whole  life 
should  depend  on  a  thing  he  does  when  he  is  seven- 
teen years  old." 

Mr.  Whately  murmured  something  about  it  being 
the  way  of  the  world,  adding  he  himself  had  been  in 
a  bank  now  for  thirty  years. 

"Which  is  the  very  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Whately, 
"that  I  don't  want  my  son  to  go  into  one" — an  argu- 
ment that  did  not  touch  her  husband. 

But  talk  how  they  might,  and  whatever  philosophic 
attitude  they  might  adopt,  the  practical  position  re- 
mained unchanged.  Roland  had  been  offered  a  post 
in  a  bank,  which  he  could  take  up  at  the  beginning 
of  October.  Three  weeks  were  left  him  in  which  he 
might  try  to  find  something  better  for  himself;  but 
of  this  there  seemed  little  prospect. 


A  FORTUNATE  MEETING  107 

And  as  he  sat  in  the  free  seats  at  the  Oval,  on  an 
afternoon  of  late  September,  Roland  had  to  face  his 
position  honestly,  and  own  to  himself  there  was  no 
alternative  to  the  bank. 

He  was  lonely  as  he  sat  there  in  the  mild  sunshine 
watching  the  white  figures  move  across  the  grass. 
That  evening  school  would  be  going  back  and  he 
would  not  be  with  them.  It  was  hard  to  realize  that 
in  four  hours'  tune  the  cloisters  would  be  alive  with 
voices,  that  feet  would  be  clattering  up  and  down  the 
study  steps,  that  the  eight-fifteen  would  have  just 
arrived  and  the  rush  to  the  hall  would  have  begun. 

The  play  became  slow;  two  professionals  were 
wearing  down  the  bowling.  He  began  to  feel  sleepy  in 
the  languid  atmosphere  of  this  late  summer  after- 
noon. He  could  not  concentrate  his  attention  upon 
the  cricket.  He  could  think  only  of  himself,  and  the 
river  that  was  bearing  him  without  his  knowledge  to 
a  country  he  did  not  know. 

It  was  not  merely  that  he  had  left  school,  that  he 
had  exchanged  one  discipline  for  another;  he  had  al- 
tered entirely  his  mode  of  life,  and  for  this  new  life 
a  new  technique  would  be  required.  Up  till  now 
everything  had  been  marked  out  clearly  in  definite 
stages ;  he  had  been  working  in  definite  lines.  It  was 
not  merely  that  the  year  was  divided  into  terms,  but 
his  career  also  was  so  divided.  There  had  been  a 
gradation  in  everything.  It  had  been  his  ambition 
to  get  his  firsts  at  football,  and  the  path  was  marked 
out  clearly  for  him — house  cap.,  seconds,  firsts:  in 
form  he  had  wanted  to  get  into  the  Sixth,  and  here 
again  the  course  had  been  clear — Fourth,  Fifth,  Sixth : 
he  had  wanted  to  become  a  house  prefect ;  the  process 
was  the  same — day  room  table,  Lower  Fourth  table, 
Fifth  Form  table,  Sixth  Form  table.  He  had  known 


108  ROLAND  WHATELY 

exactly  what  he  was  doing;  everything  had  been  made 
simple  for  him.  His  ambitions  had  been  protected. 
It  was  quite  different  now;  nothing  was  clearly  de- 
fined. He  would  have  to  spend  a  certain  number  of 
hours  a  day  in  an  office.  Outside  of  that  office  he 
would  be  free  to  do  what  he  liked.  He  could  choose 
his  own  ambition,  but  as  yet  he  could  not  decide  what 
that  would  be.  He  was  as  dazed  by  the  imminence  of 
this  freedom  as  a  mortal  man  whose  world  is  ordered 
by  the  limits  of  time  and  space  when  confronted  sud- 
denly with  the  problem  of  infinity.  Roland  could  not 
come  to  terms  with  a  world  in  which  he  would  not 
be  tethered  to  one  spot  by  periods  of  three  months. 
His  reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  hand  that  descended 
heavily  on  his  shoulder  and  a  voice  he  recognized, 
that  addressed  him  by  his  name.  He  turned  and  saw 
Gerald  Marston  standing  behind  him. 

"So  you  are  a  free  man  at  last,"  he  said.  "How  did 
the  rest  of  the  term  go?" 

It  was  a  pleasant  surprise;  and  Roland  welcomed 
the  prospect  of  a  cheery  afternoon  with  a  companion 
who  would  soon  dispel  his  melancholy. 

"Oh,  not  so  badly,"  he  said.  "I  lay  pretty  quiet 
and  saw  as  little  of  Carus  Evans  as  I  could." 

"And  how  is  the  amiable  Brewster?"  asked  Mar- 
ston. 

"He's  all  right,  I  suppose.  He  won't  have  much  of 
a  time  this  year,  though,  I  should  think.  He  ought 
to  have  been  captain  of  the  XI.,  but  they  say  now  he 
is  not  responsible  enough,  and  Jenkins,  a  man  he 
absolutely  hates,  is  going  to  run  it  instead." 

"So  you're  not  sorry  you  have  left?" 

Roland  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"In  a  way  not ;  if  there  hadn't  been  a  row,  though, 
I  should  have  had  a  pretty  good  time  this  term." 


A  FORTUNATE  MEETING  109 

"Well,  you  can't  have  things  both  ways.  What's 
going  to  happen  to  you  now?" 

With  most  people  Roland  would  have  preferred  to 
pass  the  matter  off  with  some  casual  remark  about 
his  father  having  got  him  a  good  job  in  the  City. 
He  liked  sympathy,  but  was  afraid  of  sympathy  when 
it  became  pity.  He  did  not  want  the  acquaintances 
who,  six  months  ago,  had  been  talking  of  him  as  "that 
lucky  little  beast,  Whately,"  to  speak  of  him  now  as 
"poor  old  Whately;  rotten  luck  on  him;  have  you 
heard  about  it?"  But  it  is  always  easier  to  make  a 
confession  to  a  stranger  than  to  a  person  with  whom 
one  is  brought  into  daily  contact.  Marston  was  a 
person  with  whom  he  felt  intimate,  although  he  knew 
him  so  little ;  and  so  he  found  himself  telling  Marston 
about  the  bank  and  of  the  dismal  future  that  awaited 
him. 

Marston  was  highly  indignant. 

"What  a  beastly  shame,"  he  said.  "You  will  simply 
hate  it.  Cannot  your  father  get  you  something 
better?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  He  has  always  lived  a  very  quiet 
life ;  he  has  not  got  any  influential  friends — but  really, 
what's  the  good  of  talking  about  it?  Something  may 
turn  up.  Let's  watch  the  cricket." 

"Oh,  rot,  man!"  expostulated  Marston.  "You  can't 
let  the  thing  drop  like  this.  After  all,  my  father  is 
rather  a  big  pot  in  the  varnish  world ;  he  may  be  able 
to  do  something." 

"But  I  don't  know  anything  about  varnish." 

"You  don't  need  to,  my  dear  fellow.  The  less  you 
know  about  it  the  better.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to 
believe  that  our  kind  of  varnish  is  the  best."  And  as 
they  walked  round  the  ground  during  the  tea  interval 
a  happy  idea  occurred  to  Marston. 


110  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"I've  got  it,"  he  said.  "We  have  got  a  cricket 
match  on  Saturday  against  the  village;  we're  quite 
likely  to  be  a  man  short;  at  any  rate  we  can  always 
play  twelve-a-side.  You  come  down  and  stay  the 
week-end  with  us.  The  pater's  frightfully  keen  on 
cricket.  If  you  can  manage  to  make  a  few  he's  sure 
to  be  impressed,  and  then  I'll  tell  him  all  about  you. 
You  will  get  a  pleasant  week-end  and  I  expect  quite 
a  good  game  of  cricket." 

Roland  naturally  accepted  this  proposal  eagerly. 
He  did  not,  however,  tell  his  people  of  the  prospect  of 
a  job  in  Marston  &  Marston,  Limited;  he  preferred 
to  wait  till  things  were  settled  one  way  or  another. 
If  he  were  to  be  disappointed,  he  would  prefer  to  be 
disappointed  alone.  He  did  not  need  any  sympathy 
at  such  a  time. 

But  when  he  went  round  to  the  Curtises'  April 
could  tell,  from  the  glow  in  his  face,  that  he  was 
unusually  excited  about  something.  She  did  not  have 
a  chance  to  speak  to  him  when  he  was  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Her  mother  talked  and  talked.  Arthur  had 
just  gone  back  to  school  and  she  was  garrulous  about 
his  outfit. 

"It  is  so  absurd,  you  know,  Mr.  Whately,"  she  said, 
"the  way  people  say  women  care  more  about  clothes 
than  men.  There  is  Arthur  to-day;  he  insisted  on 
having  linen  shirts  instead  of  woolen  ones,  although 
woolen  shirts  are  much  nicer  and  much  warmer.  'My 
dear  Arthur/  I  said,  'no  one  can  see  your  shirt ;  your 
waistcoat  hides  most  of  it  and  your  tie  the  rest.'  But 
he  said  that  all  the  boys  wore  linen  shirts  instead 
of  flannel.  'But,  my  dear  Arthur,'  I  said,  'who  is 
going  to  see  what  kind  of  a  shirt  you  are  wearing  if  it 
is  covered  by  your  waistcoat  and  tie?  And  I  can  cut 
your  sleeves  shorter  so  that  they  would  not  be  seen 


A  FORTUNATE  MEETING  111 

beneath  your  coat.'  And  do  you  know  what  he  said, 
Mr.  Whately?  He  said,  'You  don't  understand, 
mother;  the  boys  would  see  that  I  was  wearing  a  flan- 
nel shirt  when  I  changed  for  football,  and  I  would  be 
ragged  for  it.'  Well,  now,  Mr.  Whately,  isn't  that 
absurd?" 

She  went  on  talking  and  talking  about  every  gar- 
ment she  had  bought  for  her  son — his  ties,  his  boots, 
his  socks,  his  coat. 

Roland  hardly  talked  at  all.  His  father  mentioned 
that  he  was  going  down  for  the  week-end  to  stay  with 
some  friends  and  take  part  in  a  cricket  match. 

"So  that  is  what  you  are  so  excited  about!"  April 
had  interposed.  And  Roland  had  laughed  and  said 
that  that  was  it. 

But  she  would  not  believe  that  he  could  be  so  ex- 
cited about  a  game  of  cricket,  and  in  the  hall  she  had 
pulled  him  by  his  coat  sleeve. 

"What  is  it?"  she  had  whispered.  "Something  has 
happened.  It  is  not  only  a  cricket  match." 

And  because  he  wanted  to  share  his  enthusiasm 
with  someone,  and  because  April  looked  so  pretty, 
and  because  he  felt  that  courage  would  flow  to  him 
from  her  faith  in  him,  he  confided  in  her  his  hope. 

"Oh,  that  would  be  lovely,"  she  said.  "I  do  hope 
things  will  turn  out  all  right.  I've  felt  so  guilty  all 
along  about  it;  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  none  of  this 
would  ever  have  happened." 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  said  Roland.  "Things 
are  beginning  to  turn  right  now." 

There  was  no  time  for  further  conversation;  Mrs. 
Curtis  had  completed  her  doorstep  homily  to  Mr. 
Whately.  April  pressed  Roland's  hand  eagerly  as  she 
said  good-by  to  him. 

"Good  luck!"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOGSTEAD 

IT  was  a  glorious  week,  and  through  Thursday  and 
Friday  Roland  watched  in  nervous  anticipation 
every  cloud  that  crossed  the  pale  blue  sky.  Sooner 
or  later  the  weather  must  break,  he  felt ;  and  it  would 
be  fatal  for  his  prospects  if  it  rained  now.  It  is 
miserable  to  sit  in  a  pavilion  and  watch  the  wicket 
slowly  become  a  bog;  cheeriness  under  such  condi- 
tions is  anti-social.  Mr.  Marston  would  be  unable 
to  work  up  any  sympathy  for  him,  and  would  remem- 
ber him  as  "that  fellow  who  came  down  for  the 
cricket  match  that  was  such  a  fiasco" — an  unfortu- 
nate association. 

Everything  went  well,  however.  Roland  traveled 
down  on  the  Friday  night,  and  as  he  got  out  of  the 
train  at  Hogstead  station  he  saw  the  spire  of  the 
church  black  against  a  green  and  scarlet  sky.  "With 
such  a  sky  it  can  hardly  be  wet  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

The  Marstons  were  a  rich  family,  and  it  was  the 
first  time  Roland  had  seen  anything  of  the  life  of 
really  wealthy  people.  He  was  met  at  the  station 
and  was  driven  up  through  a  long,  curving  drive  to 
a  Georgian  house  surrounded  by  well-kept  lawns. 
Marston  received  him  in  a  large,  oak-paneled  hall, 
and  although  at  first  Roland  was  a  little  embarrassed 
by  the  attentions  of  the  footman,  who  took  his  hat 
and  coat  and  bag,  within  five  minutes  he  found  him- 

112 


HOGSTEAD  113 

self  completely  at  his  ease,  sitting  in  a  deep  arm- 
chair discussing  with  Mr.  Marston  the  prospects  of 
a  certain  young  cricketer  who  had  made  his  first  ap- 
pearance that  summer  at  the  Oval. 

Mr.  Marston  was  a  fine  healthy  man,  in  the  autumn 
of  life.  The  enthusiasm  of  his  early  years  had  been 
spent  in  a  bitter  struggle  to  build  up  his  business  and 
he  had  had  very  little  time  for  amusement.  During 
the  long  hours  at  his  desk  and  the  long  evenings  with 
ledgers  and  account-books  piled  before  him  he  had 
looked  forward  to  the  days  when  he  would  be  able  to 
delegate  his  authority  and  spend  most  of  his  time  in 
the  country,  within  the  sound  of  bat  and  ball.  Hav- 
ing had  little  coaching  he  was  himself  a  poor  per- 
former ;  for  which  reason  he  was  the  more  kindly  dis- 
posed to  anyone  who  showed  promise.  It  was  a  rule 
of  his  estate  that,  winter  as  well  as  summer,  every 
gardener,  groom  and  servant  should  spend  ten  min- 
utes each  morning  bowling  at  the  nets.  He  lived  in 
the  hope  that  one  day  an  under-gardener  would  be 
deemed  worthy  of  transportation  to  the  county 
ground. 

"My  son  tells  me  you  are  a  great  performer,"  he 
said  to  Roland. 

"Oh,  no,  sir;  only  very  moderate.  I  did  not  get 
into  the  first  XI.  at  Fernhurst." 

"They  had  an  awfully  strong  XI.,"  interposed  Mar- 
ston. "And  he  had  a  blooming  good  average  for  the 
second.  Didn't  you  make  a  century  against  the 
town?" 

Roland  confessed  that  he  had,  but  remarked  that 
with  such  bowling  it  was  very  hard  to  do  anything 
else. 

"Well,  ten  other  people  managed  to,"  said  Mar- 
ston, 


ROLAND  WHATELY 

"And  a  century  is  a  century  whoever  makes  it," 
said  his  father,  who  had  never  made  as  many  as  fifty 
in  his  life.  "You've  got  to  make  a  lot  of  good  shots  to 
make  a  hundred." 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Marston,  "I  don't  mind  betting 
he  gets  a  few  to-morrow." 

And  for  half  an  hour  they  exchanged  memories  of 
the  greatest  of  all  games. 

Roland  found  his  evening  clothes  neatly  laid  out 
on  his  bed  when  he  went  up  to  change  for  dinner ;  and 
when  he  came  down  the  whole  family  was  assembled 
in  the  drawing-room.  There  were  Mrs.  Marston,  a 
large  rather  plump  woman  of  about  fifty  years  old; 
her  daughter  Muriel,  a  small  and  pretty  girl,  with 
her  light  hair  scattered  over  her  shoulders;  and  two 
or  three  other  members  of  the  next  day's  side.  There 
was  an  intimate  atmosphere  of  comfort  and  well- 
being  to  which  Roland  was  unaccustomed.  At  home 
they  had  only  one  servant,  and  had  to  wait  a  good 
deal  upon  themselves.  He  enjoyed  the  silent,  unob- 
trusive methods  of  the  two  men  who  waited  on  them. 
He  never  needed  to  ask  for  anything;  as  soon  as  he 
had  finished  his  bread  another  piece  was  offered  him ; 
his  glass  was  filled  as  it  began  to  empty;  and  the 
conversation  was  like  the  meal — calm,  leisured,  pol- 
ished. 

Roland  sat  next  to  Muriel  and  found  her  a  delight- 
ful companion.  She  was  at  an  age  when  school  and 
games  filled  her  life  completely.  She  told  Roland 
of  a  rag  that  they  had  perpetrated  on  their  French 
mistress,  and  he  recounted  her  the  exploits  of  one 
Foster,  who  used  to  dress  up  at  night,  go  down  to 
the  Eversham  Arms,  sing  songs  and  afterwards  pass 
round  the  hat. 

Roland  had  his  doubts  as  to  the  existence  of  Fos- 


HOGSTEAD  115 

ter;  he  had  become  at  Fernhurst  one  of  those  mythi- 
cal creatures  which  every  school  possesses — a  fellow 
who  took  part  in  one  or  two  amusing  escapades,  and 
around  whose  name  had  accumulated  the  legends  of 
many  generations.  His  story  was  worth  telling,  none 
the  less. 

After  dinner  they  walked  out  into  the  garden,  with 
the  chill  of  the  autumn  night  in  the  air.  It  reminded 
Roland  that  his  sojourn  in  that  warmly  colored  life 
was  only  temporary,  and  that  outside  it  was  the  cold, 
cheerless  struggle  for  existence. 

"It  is  so  ripping  this,"  he  said  to  Muriel,  "and  it 
is  so  rotten  to  think  that  in  a  few  weeks  I  shall  be 
sitting  down  in  front  of  a  desk  and  adding  up  figures." 
He  told  her,  though  she  was  already  acquainted  with 
the  facts,  of  how  he  had  left  Fernhurst  at  the  end 
of  the  term,  and  in  a  few  weeks  would  be  going  into 
a  bank. 

"Oh,  how  beastly,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  you  will 
have  rotten  short  holidays?" 

"A  fortnight  a  year." 

"I  think  it  is  a  shame,"  she  said.  "I  am  sure  a 
boy  like  you  ought  to  be  leading  an  open-air  life 
somewhere." 

And  that  night,  before  he  fell  asleep,  Roland 
thought  wistfully  of  the  company  he  had  met  that 
day.  It  was  marvelous  how  money  smoothed  every- 
thing. It  was  the  oil  that  made  the  cogs  in  the  social 
machine  revolve;  without  it  there  was  no  rhythm  or 
harmony,  but  only  a  broken,  jarring  movement.  With- 
out money  he  felt  life  must  be  always  in  a  degree 
squalid.  He  remembered  his  own  home  and  the  nu- 
merous worries  about  small  accounts  and  small  ex- 
penses; he  knew  how  it  had  worn  down  the  energy 
of  his  father.  He  knew  that  such  worries  would 


116  ROLAND  WHATELY 

never  touch  a  girl  like  Muriel.  How  easy  and  good- 
natured  all  these  people  were;  they  were  flowers  that 
had  been  grown  in  a  fertile  soil.  Everything  de- 
pended upon  the  soil  in  which  one  was  planted;  the 
finest  plants  would  wither  if  they  grew  far  from  the 
sunshine  in  a  damp  corner  of  a  field. 

Next  day  Roland  awoke  to  a  world  heavy  with  a 
dripping  golden  mist,  that  heralded  a  bright  hot  day. 
There  had  been  a  heavy  dew,  and  after  breakfast 
they  all  walked  down  to  the  ground  to  look  at  the 
wicket. 

"If  we  win  the  toss  to-day,  Gerald,"  said  Mr.  Mar- 
ston  to  his  son,  "I  think  we  had  better  put  them  in 
first.  It  is  bound  to  play  a  bit  trickily  for  the  first 
hour  or  so." 

There  was  no  need  for  such  subtlety,  however,  for 
the  village  won  the  toss,  and,  as  is  the  way  with  vil- 
lagers, decided  to  go  in  first. 

"Good,"  said  Mr.  Marston,  "and  if  we  have  not 
got  eight  of  them  out  by  lunch  I  shall  be  very  sur- 
prised." 

And,  sure  enough,  eight  of  the  village  were  out  by 
lunch,  but  the  score  had  reached  one  hundred  and 
five.  This  was  largely  due  to  three  erratic  overs  that 
had  been  sent  down  by  an  ecclesiastical  student  from 
Wells  who  had  bowled,  perhaps  in  earnest  of  future 
compromise,  on  the  leg  theory,  with  his  field  placed 
upon  the  off. 

The  local  butcher  had  collected  some  thirty  runs 
off  these  three  overs,  and  thirty  runs  in  a  village 
match  when  the  whole  score  of  a  side  does  not  usu- 
ally reach  more  than  fifty  or  sixty  is  a  serious  con- 
sideration. 

At  lunch  time  Mr.  Marston  was  most  apologetic. 
"I  had  heard  he  was  a  good  bowler,"  he  said  to 


HOGSTEAD  117 

Roland,  "and  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to 
give  him  a  chance  to  bowl  early  on;  and  then  when 
I  saw  him  getting  hit  all  over  the  place  I  imagined 
he  was  probably  angling  for  a  catch  or  something; 
and  then  after  he  had  been  hit  about  in  the  first  two 
overs  I  had  to  give  him  a  third  for  luck." 

"An  expensive  courtesy,"  said  Roland. 

"Perhaps  it  was;  but,  after  all,  a  hundred  and  five 
is  not  a  great  deal,  and  we  have  a  good  many  bats 
on  our  side." 

Within  half  an  hour's  time  a  hundred  and  five  for 
eight  had  become  a  hundred  and  fifty.  Under  the 
kindly  influence  of  his  excellent  champagne  cup  Mr. 
Marston  had  decided  to  give  the  ecclesiastical  student 
another  opportunity  of  justifying  his  reputation.  He 
did  not  redeem  that  reputation.  He  sent  down  two 
overs,  which  resulted — in  addition  to  three  wides  and 
a  "no  ball" — in  twenty-five  runs ;  and  a  hundred  and 
fifty  would  take  a  lot  of  getting.  Indeed,  Mr.  Mar- 
ston's  XI.  never  looked  at  all  like  getting  them. 

Roland,  who  was  sent  in  first,  was  caught  at  short 
leg  in  the  second  over;  it  was  off  a  bad  ball  and  a 
worse  stroke — a  slow,  long  hop  that  he  hit  right 
across,  and  skied.  He  was  bitterly  disappointed.  He 
did  not  mind  making  ducks;  it  was  all  in  the  run  of 
a  game,  and  he  never  minded  if  he  was  got  out  by  a 
good  ball.  But  it  was  hard  on  such  a  day  to  throw 
away  one's  wicket. 

"Very  bad  luck  indeed,"  said  Muriel,  as  he  reached 
the  pavilion. 

"Not  bad  luck,  bad  play!"  he  remarked  good 
humoredly.  Having  taken  off  his  pads  he  sat  down 
beside  her  and  watched  the  game.  It  was  not  par- 
ticularly exciting;  wickets  fell  with  great  regularity. 
Mr.  Marston  made  a  few  big  hits,  and  his  son  stayed 


118  ROLAND  WHATELY 

in  for  a  little  while  without  doing  anything  much 
more  than  keep  his  end  up.  In  the  end  the  total 
reached  a  hundred  and  thirteen,  and  in  a  one-day 
match  a  first  innings  result  was  usually  final.  But 
Mr.  Marston  was  not  at  all  despondent.  He  refused 
to  wait  for  the  tea  interval  and  led  his  side  straight 
on  to  the  field. 

"We  don't  want  any  rest,"  he  said.  "Most  of  us 
have  rested  the  whole  afternoon,  and  those  of  the 
other  side  who  are  not  batting  can  have  tea." 

It  was  now  four- thirty;  two  hours  remained  before 
the  drawing  of  stumps,  and  from  now  on  the  game 
became  really  exciting.  Marston  took  two  wickets  in 
his  first  over,  and  at  the  other  end  a  man  was  run  out. 
Three  wickets  were  down  for  two  runs;  a  panic  de- 
scended upon  the  villagers.  The  cobbler  was  sent  in 
to  join  the  doctor,  with  strict  instructions  not  to  hit 
on  any  account.  The  cobbler  was  not  used  to  passive 
resistance;  he  played  carefully  for  a  couple  of  overs, 
then  a  faster  ball  from  Marston  found  the  edge  of 
the  bat.  Short  slip  was  for  him,  providentially, 
asleep,  and  the  umpire  signaled  a  four.  This  seemed 
to  throw  him  off  his  balance. 

"It  is  no  good,"  he  said.  "If  I  start  mucking  about 
like  that  I  don't  stand  the  foggiest  chance  of  sticking 
in.  I'm  going  to  have  a  hit." 

At  the  next  ball  he  did  have  a  hit — right  across  it, 
and  his  middle  stump  fell  flat. 

After  this  there  was  no  serious  attempt  to  wear 
down  the  bowling.  Rustic  performers — each  with  a 
style  more  curious  than  the  last — drove  length  balls 
on  the  off  stump  in  the  direction  of  long  on.  Wickets 
fell  quickly.  The  score  rose;  and  by  the  tune  the 
innings  was  over  only  an  hour  was  left  for  play,  and 
ninety-two  runs  were  required  to  win — ninety-two 


HOGSTEAD  119 

runs  against  time  in  a  fading  light,  on  a  wicket  that 
had  been  torn  up  by  hob-nailed  boots,  was  not  the 
easiest  of  tasks. 

"Still,  we  must  have  a  shot  for  it,"  Mr.  Marston 
said.  "We  cannot  be  more  than  beaten,  and  we  are 
that  already." 

And  so  Gerald  Marston  and  Roland  went  in  to 
open  the  innings  with  the  firm  intention  of  getting 
on  or  getting  out. 

The  start  was  sensational.  Marston  had  few  pre- 
tensions to  style;  and  indeed  his  unorthodox,  firm- 
footed  drive  had  been  the  despair  of  the  Fernhurst 
Professional.  The  ball,  when  he  hit  it,  went  into  the 
air  far  more  often  than  along  the  ground.  And  prob- 
ably no  one  was  more  surprised  than  he  was  when  he 
hit  the  first  two  balls  that  he  received  right  along  the 
ground  to  the  boundary,  past  cover-point.  The  third 
ball  was  well  up ;  he  took  a  terrific  drive  at  it,  missed 
it,  and  was  very  nearly  bowled.  Roland,  who  was 
backing  up  closely,  called  him  for  a  run,  and  if  sur- 
prise at  so  unparalleled  an  example  of  impertinence 
had  not  rendered  the  wicket-keeper  impotent,  nothing 
could  have  saved  him  from  being  run  out.  A  fever 
entered  into  Roland's  brain.  He  knew  quite  well  that 
he  ought  to  play  carefully  for  a  few  balls  to  get  his 
eye  in,  but  that  short  run  had  flung  him  off  his  bal- 
ance. The  first  ball  he  received  he  hit  at  with  a 
horizontal  bat,  and  it  sailed,  fortunately  for  him,  over 
cover-point's  head  for  two.  He  attempted  a  similar 
stroke  at  the  next  ball,  was  less  fortunate,  and  saw 
cover-point  prepare  himself  for  an  apparently  easy 
catch.  But  there  is  a  kindly  Providence  which  guards 
the  reckless. 

Cover-point  was  the  doctor,  and  probably  the  safest 
man  in  the  whole  field  to  whom  to  send  a  catch.  He 


120  ROLAND  WHATELY 

was  not,  however,  proof  against  the  impetuous  ardor 
of  mid-off.  Mid-off  saw  the  ball  in  the  air  and  saw 
nothing  else.  He  rushed  to  where  it  was  about  to 
fall.  He  arrived  at  the  spot  just  when  the  doctor's 
hands  were  preparing  a  comfortable  nest  for  the  ball, 
and  the  doctor  and  mid-off  fell  in  a  heap  together, 
with  the  ball  beneath  them! 

Twelve  runs  had  been  scored  in  the  first  five  balls; 
there  had  been  a  possible  run  out;  a  catch  had  been 
missed  at  cover-point.  It  was  a  worthy  start  to  a 
great  innings. 

After  that  everything  went  right  with  Roland.  He 
attempted  and  brought  off  some  remarkably  audacious 
shots.  He  let  fly  at  everything  that  was  at  all  pitched 
up  to  him.  Sometimes  he  hit  the  ball  in  the  center 
of  the  bat,  and  it  sailed  far  into  the  long  field,  but 
even  his  mishits  were  powerful  enough  to  lift  the  ball 
out  of  reach  of  the  instanding  fieldsman ;  and  fortune 
was  kind.  By  the  time  Marston  was  caught  at  the 
wicket  the  score  had  reached  fifty-seven,  and  there 
were  still  twenty-five  minutes  left  for  play.  At  the 
present  rate  of  scoring  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
in  getting  the  runs.  At  this  point,  however,  a  mis- 
fortune befell  them. 

In  the  first  innings  the  ecclesiastical  student  had 
made  a  duck;  he  had  not,  indeed,  received  a  single 
ball.  His  predecessor  had  been  bowled  by  the  last 
ball  of  an  over,  and  off  the  first  ball  of  the  next  over 
the  man  at  the  other  end  had  called  him  for  an  im- 
possible run  and  he  had  been  run  out.  To  recom- 
pense him  for  this  ill  luck  Mr.  Marston  had  put  him 
in  first  wicket  down.  "After  all,"  he  had  said,  "we 
ought  to  let  the  man  have  a  show,  and  if  he  does  make 
a  duck  it  won't  make  any  difference."  He  was  not 
prepared,  however,  for  what  did  occur.  The  ecclesi- 


HOGSTEAD  121 

astical  student  was  a  left-handed  batsman,  and  a 
sigh  of  relief  seemed  to  go  up  from  the  fielding  side 
at  the  revelation.  They  were  sportsmen;  they  were 
prepared  to  run  across  in  the  middle  of  the  over;  but 
even  so,  the  preparation  of  a  field  for  a  left-hander 
was  a  lengthy  business. 

A  gray  gloom  descended  on  the  pavilion. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  said  Mr.  Marston.  "First  of  all 
he  bowls  on  the  leg  theory,  with  his  field  placed  on 
the  off,  and  then  at  a  moment  like  this  he  doesn't  let 
us  know  that  he's  a  left-hander!" 

And  the  prospective  divine  appeared  to  be  quite 
unconscious  of  the  situation.  He  had  come  out  to 
enjoy  himself;  so  far  he  had  not  enjoyed  himself 
greatly.  He  had  taken  no  wickets,  and  had  been 
responsible  for  the  loss  of  some  fifty  runs.  This  was 
his  last  chance,  and  he  was  not  going  to  hurry  him- 
self. He  played  his  first  three  balls  carefully,  and 
placed  the  last  ball  of  the  over  in  front  of  short  leg 
for  a  single.  During  the  next  four  overs  only  eight 
runs  were  scored;  four  of  these  were  from  carefully 
placed  singles,  off  the  fifth  and  sixth  balls  in  the  over. 
Roland  only  had  three  balls  altogether,  and  off  one 
of  these  he  managed  to  get  a  square  leg  boundary. 

The  total  had  now  reached  sixty-five,  twenty-eight 
runs  were  still  wanted,  and  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
remained.  Unless  the  left-hander  were  got  out  at 
once  there  seemed  to  be  no  chance  of  winning;  this 
fact  the  village  appreciated. 

One  would  not  say,  of  course,  that  the  bowlers  did 
not  do  their  best  to  dismiss  the  ecclesiastical  student ; 
they  were  conscientious  men.  But  it  is  very  hard  to 
bowl  one's  best  if  one  knows  that  one's  success  will  be 
to  the  eventual  disadvantage  of  one's  side;  a  certain 
limpness  is  bound  to  creep  into  the  attack.  And  if 


122  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Roland  had  received  the  balls  that  were  being  sent 
down  to  his  partner,  there  is  little  doubt  that  a  couple 
of  overs  would  have  seen  the  end  of  the  match. 

Roland  realized  that  something  desperate  must  be 
done.  Either  the  left-hander  must  get  out,  or  he  him- 
self must  get  down  to  the  other  end;  and  so  off  the 
first  ball  of  the  next  over  Roland  backed  up  closely. 
He  was  halfway  down  the  pitch  by  the  time  the  ball 
reached  the  batsman.  It  was  a  straight  half-volley, 
which  was  met  with  a  motionless,  if  perpendicular, 
bat.  The  ball  trickled  into  the  hands  of  mid-off. 

"Come  on!"  yelled  Roland. 

It  was  an  impossible  run,  and  the  left-hander  stood, 
in  startled  dismay,  a  few  steps  outside  the  crease. 

"Run ! "  yelled  Roland.  His  partner  ran  a  few  steps, 
saw  the  ball  was  in  the  hands  of  mid-off,  and  pre- 
pared to  walk  back  to  the  pavilion.  Mid-off,  however, 
was  in  a  highly  electric  state.  He  had  already  im- 
periled severely  the  prospects  of  his  side  by  colliding 
with  cover-point,  and  was  resolved,  at  any  rate,  not 
to  make  a  second  blunder.  He  had  the  ball  in  his 
hands.  There  was  a  chance  of  running  a  batsman 
out;  he  must  get  the  ball  to  the  unprotected  wicket 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  so,  taking  careful  aim,  he 
flung  the  ball  at  the  wicket  with  the  greatest  possible 
violence.  It  missed  the  wicket;  and  a  student  of  the 
score  book  would  infer  that,  after  having  played  him- 
self in  carefully  and  scoring  four  singles,  F.  R.  Armi- 
tage  opened  his  shoulders  in  fine  form.  He  might 
very  well  remain  in  this  illusion,  for  there  is  no  further 
entry  in  the  score  book  against  that  gentleman's  name. 
There  are  just  four  singles  and  a  five.  He  did  not  re- 
ceive another  ball. 

Off  the  next  four  balls  of  the  over  Roland  hit  two 
fours  and  a  two;  off  the  last  ball  he  got  another  dan- 


HOGSTEAD  123 

gerously  close  single.  Only  ten  more  runs  were 
needed:  there  was  now  ample  time  in  which  to  get 
them.  Roland  got  them  indeed  off  the  first  four 
balls  of  the  next  over. 

At  the  end  of  the  match  there  was  a  scene  of  real 
enthusiasm,  in  which  Mr.  Armitage  was  the  only  per- 
son who  took  no  part.  He  was  still  wondering  what 
had  induced  Roland  to  call  him  for  those  absurd 
singles.  He  indeed  took  Mr.  Marston  aside  after 
dinner  and  pointed  out  to  him  that  that  young  man 
should  really  be  given  a  few  lessons  in  backing  up. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  said,  "it  was  only  the  merest 
fluke  that  saved  my  wicket — another  inch  and  I 
should  have  been  run  out." 

"Well,  he  managed  to  win  the  match  for  us,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Marston. 

"Perhaps,  perhaps,  but  he  nearly  ran  me  out." 

Mr.  Armitage  was,  however,  the  only  one  of  the 
party  at  all  alarmed  by  Roland's  daring.  That  eve- 
ning Roland  was  a  small  hero.  Mr.  Marston  could 
find  no  words  too  good  for  him. 

"A  splendid  fellow,"  he  said  to  Gerald  afterwards. 
"A  really  splendid  fellow — the  sort  of  friend  I  have 
always  wanted  you  to  make — a  first-class,  open, 
straight  fellow." 

Marston  thought  this  a  good  opportunity  to  drop  a 
hint  about  Roland's  position. 

"Yes — a  first-class  fellow,"  he  said.  "Isn't  it  rot- 
ten to  think  a  chap  like  that  will  have  to  spend  the 
whole  of  his  life  in  a  bank,  with  only  a  fortnight's 
holiday  a  year,  and  no  chance  at  all  to  develop  his 
game!" 

Mr.  Marston's  rubicund  face  expressed  appropriate 
disapproval. 

"That  fellow  going  to  spend  all  his  life  in  a  bank? 


124  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Preposterous!     He  will  be  simply  ruined  there — a 
fellow  who  can  play  cricket  like  that!" 

Mr.  Marston,  having  spent  his  own  life  at  a  desk, 
was  anxious  to  save  anyone  else  from  a  similar  fate, 
especially  a  cricketer. 

"Well,  it  seems  the  only  thing  for  him  to  do,  father ; 
his  people  haven't  got  much  money  and  have  no  in- 
fluence. I  know  they  have  tried  to  get  him  some- 
thing better,  but  they  haven't  been  able  to." 

"My  dear  Gerald,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  it? 
If  I  had  known  a  fellow  like  that  was  being  tied  up 
in  a  bank  I'd  have  tried  to  do  something  to  help  him." 

"Well,  it's  not  too  late  now,  is  it?" 

"No,  but  it's  rather  short  notice,  isn't  it?  What 
could  he  do?" 

"Pretty  well  anything  you  could  give  him,  father. 
He  is  jolly  keen." 

"Um!"  said  Mr.  Marston;  and  Gerald,  who  knew 
his  father  well,  recognized  that  he  was  about  to  im- 
merse himself  in  deep  thought,  and  that  it  would  be 
wiser  to  leave  him  alone. 

By  next  morning  the  deep  thought  had  crystallized 
into  an  idea. 

"Look  here,  Gerald,"  said  Mr.  Marston.  "I  don't 
know  what  this  young  man  is  worth  to  me  from  a 
business  point  of  view — probably  precious  little  at 
present.  But  he  is  a  good  fellow,  the  sort  of  young 
chap  we  really  want  in  the  business.  None  of  us  ar 
any  younger  than  we  were.  As  far  as  I  know,  you  are 
the  only  person  under  thirty  in  the  whole  show.  Now, 
what  we  do  want  badly  just  now  are  a  few  more  for- 
eign connections.  We  have  got  the  English  market 
pretty  well,  but  that  is  not  enough.  We  want  the 
French  and  Belgian  and  German  markets,  and  later 
on  we  shall  w«mt  the  South  American  markets.  Now, 


HOGSTEAD  125 

what  I  suggest  is  this :  that  when  you  go  out  to  France 
in  November  you  should  take  young  Whately  with 
you,  show  him  round,  and  see  what  he  is  worth  gen- 
erally; and  then  we  will  send  him  off  on  a  tour  of  his 
own  and  see  how  many  clients  he  brings  us.  He  is 
just  the  sort  of  fellow  I  want  for  that  job.  We  don't 
want  the  commercial  traveler  type  at  all;  he  is  very 
good  at  small  accounts,  but  he  does  not  do  for  the  big 
financiers.  I  want  a  man  who  is  good  enough  to  mix 
in  society  abroad — whom  big  men  like  Bertram  can 
ask  to  their  houses.  A  man  like  that  would  always 
have  a  pull  over  a  purely  business  man.  Now,  if 
your  young  friend  would  care  to  have  a  shot  at  that, 
he  can ;  and  if  he  makes  good  at  it  he  will  be  making 
more  at  twenty-five  with  us  than  he  would  be  at  a 
bank  by  the  time  he  was  fifty." 

Marston  carried  the  news  at  once  to  Roland. 

"My  lad,"  he  said,  "that  innings  of  yours  is  about 
the  most  useful  thing  that  has  ever  happened  to  you 
in  your  life.  The  old  man  thinks  so  much  of  you  he 
is  prepared  to  cut  me  out  of  his  will  almost;  at  any 
rate,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  he  is  going  to  offer  you 
a  job  in  our  business." 

"What?" 

"You  will  have  to  fix  it  up  with  him,  of  course,  but 
he  suggested  to  me  that  you  and  I  should  go  out 
together  to  France  in  November,  and  you  will  be  able 
to  see  the  sort  of  way  we  do  things,  and  then  he  will 
give  you  a  shot  on  your  own  as  representative.  If  you 
do  well  at  it — well,  my  lad,  you  will  be  pretty  well 
made  for  life!" 

It  was  wonderful  news  for  Roland.  Life,  at  the 
very  moment  when  it  had  appeared  to  be  closing  in 
on  him,  had  marvelously  broadened  out.  He  returned 
home  on  the  Monday  morning,  not  only  excited  by 


126  ROLAND  WHATELY 

the  prospect  of  a  new  and  attractive  job,  but  moved 
irresistibly  by  this  sudden  vision  of  a  world  to  which 
he  was  unaccustomed — by  the  charm,  the  elegance 
and  the  direct  good-naturedness  of  this  family  life. 


CHAPTER  X 

YOUNG  LOVE 

ROLAND  said  nothing  to  his  people  of  Mr. 
Marston's  conversation  with  Gerald.  He  dis- 
liked scenes  and  an  atmosphere  of  expectation.  When 
everything  was  settled  finally  he  would  tell  them,  but 
he  would  not  risk  the  exposure  of  his  hope  to  the  chill 
of  disappointment.  He  could  not,  however,  resist 
the  temptation  to  confide  in  April.  She  was  young; 
she  could  share  his  failures  as  his  successes.  Life  was 
before  them  both. 

No  sooner  had  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  road 
than  he  saw  the  door  of  the  Curtises'  house  open. 
April  was  in  the  porch  waiting  for  him.  "She  must 
have  been  looking  for  me,"  he  thought.  "Sitting  in 
the  window-seat,  hoping  that  I  would  come."  His 
pride  as  well  as  his  affection  was  touched  by  this  clear 
proof  of  her  interest  in  him. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"I  made  a  duck,"  he  answered ;  and  his  vanity  noted 
that  her  brown  eyes  clouded  suddenly  with  disap- 
pointment. "But  that  was  only  in  the  first  innings," 
he  added. 

"Oh,  you  pig!"  she  said,  "and  I  thought  that  after 
all  it  had  come  to  nothing." 

Roland  laughed  at  the  quick  change  to  relief. 

"But  how  do  you  know  that  I  did  do  anything  in 
the  second  innings?" 

127 


128  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"You  must  have." 

"But  why?" 

''  'Cos — oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  not  fair  to  tease  me, 
Roland;  tell  me  what  happened."  They  had  passed 
into  the  hall,  shutting  the  door  behind  them,  and  she 
pulled  impatiently  at  his  sleeve :  "Come  on,  tell  me." 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  made  forty-eight  not 
out." 

"Oh,  how  ripping,  how  ripping!  Come  and  tell  me 
all  about  it,"  and  catching  him  by  the  hand  she  led 
him  to  the  window-seat,  from  which,  on  that  miser- 
able afternoon,  she  had  gazed  for  over  an  hour  down 
the  darkening  street.  "Come  on,  tell  me  everything." 

And  though  he  at  first  endeavored  to  assume  an 
attitude  of  superior  indifference,  he  soon  found  him- 
self telling  the  story  of  the  match  eagerly,  dramati- 
cally. Reticence  was  well  enough  in  the  presence  of 
the  old  and  middle-aged — parents,  relatives  and 
schoolmasters — for  all  those  who  had  put  behind  them 
the  thrill  of  wakening  confidence  and  were  prepared 
to  patronize  it  in  others,  from  whose  scrutiny  the 
young  had  to  protect  their  emotions  with  the  shield 
of  "it  is  no  matter."  But  April's  enthusiasm  was 
fresh,  unquestioning  and  freely  given;  he  could  not 
but  respond  to  it. 

She  listened  to  the  story  with  alert,  admiring  eyes. 
"And  were  they  awfully  pleased  with  you?"  she  said 
when  he  had  finished. 

"Well,  it  was  pretty  exciting." 

"And  did  Mr.  Marston  say  anything  to  you?" 

"Rather!  Quite  a  lot.  He  was  more  excited  than 
anyone." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  I  didn't  mean  the  cricket.  Did  he  say 
anything  about  the  business?" 

Roland  nodded. 


YOUNG  LOVE  129 

"Oh,  but,  Roland,  what?" 

"Well,  I'm  not  quite  certain  what,  but  I  think  he's 
going  to  let  me  have  a  shot  at  some  sort  of  foreign 
representative  affair." 

"But,  how  splendid!"  She  felt  that  she  shared,  in 
a  measure,  in  his  success.  It  was  in  her  that  he  had 
confided  his  hopes ;  it  was  to  her  that  he  had  brought 
the  news  of  his  good  fortune.  Her  face  was  flushed 
and  eager,  its  expression  softened  by  her  faith  in  him. 
And  Roland  who,  up  till  then,  had  regarded  her  as 
little  more  than  a  friend,  her  charm  as  a  delicate,  elu- 
sive fragrance,  was  unprepared  for  this  simple  joy  in 
his  achievement.  The  surprise  placed  in  his  mouth 
ardent,  unconsidered  words. 

"But  I  shouldn't  have  been  able  to  do  anything 
without  you,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  feeling  herself 
grow  nervous,  taut,  expectant. 

"You  encouraged  me  when  I  was  depressed,"  he 
said.  "You  believed  in  me.  You  told  me  that  things 
would  come  right.  And  because  of  your  belief  they 
have  come  right.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  shouldn't 
have  worried;  I  should  have  resigned  myself  to  the 
bank.  As  likely  as  not  I  shouldn't  have  gone  down  to 
the  Marstons'  at  all.  It's  all  you." 

There  was  a  pause.  And  when  at  last  she  spoke, 
the  intonation  of  her  voice  was  tender. 

"Is  that  true,  Roland,  really  true?" 

And  as  she  looked  at  him,  with  her  clear  brown  eyes, 
he  believed  implicitly  that  it  was  true.  He  was  not 
play-acting.  His  whole  being  was  softened  and  made 
tender  by  her  beauty,  by  the  sight  of  her  calm,  oval 
face  and  quiet  color,  her  hair  swept  in  a  wide  curve 
across  her  forehead,  gathered  under  the  smooth  skin 
of  her  neck.  His  manhood  grew  strong  through  her 


130  ROLAND  WHATELY 

belief  in  him.  She  was  the  key  that  would  open  for 
him  the  gate  of  adventure.  He  leaned  forward,  took 
her  hands  in  his,  and  the  touch  of  her  fingers  brought 
to  his  lips  an  immediate  avowal. 

"It's  quite  true,  April,  every  word  of  it.  I  shouldn't 
have  done  anything  but  for  you."  Her  brown  eyes 
clouded  with  a  mute  gratitude.  Gently  he  drew  her 
by  the  hand  towards  him,  and  she  made  no  effort  to 
resist  him.  "April,"  he  murmured,  "April." 

It  was  the  first  real  kiss  of  his  life.  His  mouth  did 
not  meet  hers  as  it  had  met  Dolly's,  in  a  hungry 
fierceness ;  he  did  not  hold  her  hi  his  arms  as  he  had 
held  Dolly;  did  not  press  her  to  him  till  she  was 
forced,  as  Dolly  had  been,  to  fling  her  head  back  and 
gasp  for  breath.  For  an  instant  April's  cheek  was 
against  his  and  his  mouth  touched  hers:  nothing 
more.  But  in  that  cool  contact  of  her  lips  he  found 
for  the  first  time  the  romance,  poetry,  ecstasy,  and 
what  you  will,  of  love.  And  when  his  arms  released 
her  and  she  leaned  back,  her  hand  in  his,  a  deep  ten- 
derness remained  with  them.  He  said  nothing. 
There  was  no  need  for  words.  They  sat  silent  in  face 
of  the  mystery  they  had  discovered. 

Roland  walked  home  in  harmony  with  himself,  with 
nature;  one  with  the  rhythm  of  life  that  was  made 
manifest  in  the  changing  seasons  of  the  year;  the 
green  leaf  and  the  bud ;  the  flower  and  the  fruit ;  the 
warm  days  of  harvesting.  Hammerton  was  stretched 
languid  beneath  the  September  sunshine.  The  sky 
was  blue,  a  pale  blue,  that  whitened  where  it  was  cut 
by  the  sharp  outline  of  roof  and  chimney-stack.  The 
leaves  that  had  been  fresh  and  green  in  May,  but  had 
grown  dull  in  the  heat  and  dust  of  summer,  were 
once  more  beautiful.  The  dirty  green  had  changed  to 
a  shriveled,  metallic  copper.  A  few  mornings  of 


YOUNG  LOVE  131 

golden  mist  would  break  into  a  day  of  sultry  splen- 
dor; then  would  come  the  first  warning  of  frost — 
the  chill  air  at  sundown,  the  gray  dawn  that  held  no 
promise  of  sunshine.  Oh,  soon  enough  the  boughs 
would  be  leafless,  the  streets  bare  and  wintersome. 
But  who  could  be  sad  on  this  day  of  suspended  de- 
cadence, this  afternoon  laden  with  the  heavy  autumn 
scents?  Were  not  the  year's  decay,  the  lengthening 
evenings,  part  of  the  eternal  law  of  nature — birth 
and  death,  spring  and  whiter,  and  an  awakening 
after  sleep?  The  falling  leaves  suggested  to  him 
no  analogy  with  the  elusive  enchantments  of  the 
senses. 

Two  days  later  he  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Mar- 
ston  offering  him  a  post  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
a  year,  with  all  expenses  found. 

"You  will  understand,  of  course,"  the  letter  ran, 
"that  at  present  you  are  on  probation.  Our  work  is 
personal  and  requires  special  gifts.  These  gifts,  how- 
ever, I  believe  you  to  possess.  For  both  our  sakes  I 
hope  that  you  will  make  a  success  of  this.  Gerald  is 
sailing  for  Brussels  at  the  end  of  October,  and  I  expect 
that  you  will  be  able  to  arrange  to  accompany  him. 
He  will  tell  you  what  you  will  need  to  take  out  with 
you.  We  usually  make  our  representatives  an  allow- 
ance of  fifteen  pounds  for  personal  expenses,  but  I 
daresay  that  we  could  in  your  case,  if  it  is  necessary, 
increase  this  sum." 

Roland  handed  the  letter  to  his  father. 

Mr.  Whately,  as  usual  in  the  morning,  was  in  a 
state  of  nervous  excitement.  He  was  always  a  con- 
siderable trial  to  his  family  at  breakfast.  And  as 
often  as  possible  Roland  delayed  his  own  appearance 
till  he  had  heard  the  slam  of  the  front  door.  It  is 
not  easy  to  enjoy  a  meal  when  someone  is  bouncing 


132  ROLAND  WHATELY 

from  table  to  sideboard,  reading  extracts  from  the 
morning  paper,  opening  letters,  running  up  and  down 
stairs,  forgetting  things  in  the  hall.  Mr.  Whately 
had  never  been  able  to  face  the  first  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing with  dignity  and  composure.  When  Roland 
handed  him  Mr.  Marston's  letter  he  received  it  with 
the  impatience  of  a  busy  man,  who  objects  to  being 
worried  by  an  absurd  trifle. 

"Yes,  what  is  it?    What  is  it?" 

"A  letter  from  Mr.  Marston,  father,  that  I  thought 
you  might  like  to  read." 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course;  well,  wait  a  minute,"  and  he 
projected  himself  out  of  the  door  and  up  the  stairs. 
He  returned  to  the  table  within  a  minute,  panting 
and  flustered. 

"Yes;  now  what's  the  time?  Twenty-five  past 
eight.  I've  got  seven  minutes.  Where's  this  letter  of 
yours,  Roland?  Let  me  see." 

He  picked  up  the  letter  and  began  to  read  it  as 
he  helped  himself  to  another  rasher  of  bacon.  His 
agitation  increased  as  he  read. 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  he  said  impatiently. 
"What's  all  this  about  Mr.  Marston  offering  you  a 
post  in  his  business?" 

"What's  that,  dear?"  said  Mrs.  Whately  quickly. 
"Isn't  Roland  going  into  the  bank  after  all?" 

"Yes,  of  course  he  is  going  into  the  bank,"  her 
husband  replied  hastily.  "It's  all  settled.,  Don't 
interrupt  me,  Roland.  I  can't  understand  what  you've 
been  doing!" 

And  he  flung  the  back  of  his  hand  against  his  fore- 
head, a  favorite  gesture  when  the  pressure  of  the 
conversation  grew  intense. 

"I  don't  know  what  it's  all  about,  Roland,"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  don't  know  anything  about  this  man. 


YOUNG  LOVE  133 

Who  he  is,  and  what  he  is.  And  I  don't  know  why 
you've  been  arranging  all  these  things  behind  my 
back." 

Roland  expressed  surprise  that  his  father  had  not 
welcomed  the  offer  of  so  promising  a  post.  But  Mr. 
Whately  was  too  flustered  to  consider  the  matter  in 
this  light.  "It  may  be  a  better  job,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
know.  But  the  bank  has  been  settled  and  I  can't 
think  why  you  should  want  to  alter  things.  At  any 
rate,  I  can't  stop  to  discuss  it  now,"  and  a  minute 
later  the  front  door  had  banged  behind  a  querulous, 
irritable  little  man,  who  considered  no  one  had  any 
right  to  disturb — especially  at  the  breakfast  table — 
the  placid  course  of  his  existence.  As  he  left  the 
room  he  flung  the  letter  upon  the  table,  and  Mrs. 
Whately  snatched  it  up  eagerly.  Roland  watched 
carefully  the  expression  of  her  face  as  she  read  it.  At 
first  he  noted  there  only  a  relieved  happiness,  but  as 
she  folded  the  letter  and  handed  it  back  he  saw  that 
she  was  sad. 

"Of  course  it's  splendid,  Roland,"  she  said.  "I'm 
delighted,  but  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  I  do  think  you  might 
have  told  us  something  about  it  before." 

"I  wanted  to,  mother,  but  one  doesn't  like  to  shout 
till  one's  out  of  the  wood." 

"With  friends,  no,  but  with  one's  parents — surely 
you  might  have  confided  in  us." 

There  was  no  such  implied  disapproval  in  April's 
reception  of  the  news.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  the 
afternoon  when  he  had  kissed  her,  and  he  had  won- 
dered in  what  spirit  she  would  receive  him.  Would 
there  be  awkward  stammered  explanations?  Would 
she  be  coy  and  protest  "that  she  had  been  silly,  that 
she  had  not  meant  it,  that  it  must  never  happen 
again?"  He  had  little  previous  experience  to  guide 


134  ROLAND  WHATELY 

him  and  he  was  still  debating  the  point  when  he  ar- 
rived at  No.  73  Hammerton  Rise. 

What  April  Curtis  did  was  to  open  the  door  for 
him,  close  it  quickly  behind  him  as  soon  as  he  was  in 
the  porch,  take  him  happily  by  both  hands  and  hold 
her  face  up  to  be  kissed.  There  was  not  the  least  em- 
barrassment in  her  action. 

"Well?"  she  said,  on  a  note  of  interrogation. 

For  answer  he  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  drew 
out  Mr.  Marston's  letter  and  gave  it  to  her. 

April  pulled  it  out  of  the  envelope,  hurriedly  un- 
folded it,  and  ran  an  engrossed  eye  over  its  contents. 

"Oh,  but  how  splendid,  Roland;  now  it's  all  right. 
Now  there's  no  need  to  worry  about  anything.  Come 
at  once  and  tell  mother.  Mother,  mother!"  she 
shouted,  and  catching  Roland  by  the  hand  dragged 
him  after  her  towards  the  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Curtis  had,  through  the  laborious  passage  of 
fifty-two  uneventful  years,  so  trained  her  face  to  as- 
sume on  all  occasions  an  expression  of  pleasant  senti- 
mental interest  in  the  affairs  of  others  that  by  now 
her  features  could  not  be  arranged  to  accommodate 
any  other  emotion.  She  appeared  therefore  unas- 
tonished  when  her  name  was  called  loudly  in  the  hall, 
when  the  drawing-room  door  was  flung  open  and  a 
flushed,  excited  April  stood  in  the  doorway  grasp- 
ing by  the  hand  an  equally  flushed  but  embarrassed 
Roland.  Mrs.  Curtis  laid  her  knitting  in  her  lap;  a 
kindly  smile  spread  over  her  glazed  countenance. 

"Well,  my  dear,  and  what's  all  this  about?"  she 
said. 

"Oh,  it's  so  exciting,  mother.  Roland's  not  going 
into  a  bank  after  all." 

"No,  dear?" 

"No,  mother.    A  Mr.  Marston,  you  know  the  man 


YOUNG  LOVE  135 

whom  Roland  went  to  stay  with  last  week,  has  offered 
him  a  post  in  his  firm.  It's  a  lovely  job.  He'll  be 
traveling  all  over  the  world  and  he's  going  to  get  a 
salary;  of  how  much  is  it — yes,  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year  and  all  expenses  paid.  Isn't  it 
splendid?" 

Mrs.  Curtis  purred  with  reciprocated  pleasure:  "Of 
course  it  is,  and  how  pleased  your  parents  must  be. 
Come  and  sit  down  here;  yes,  shut  the  door,  please. 
You  know  I  always  said  to  Mr.  Whately,  'Roland  is 
going  to  do  something  big;  I'm  sure  of  it.'  And  now 
you  see  my  prophecy  has  come  true.  I  shall  remind 
Mr.  Whately  of  that  next  time  he  comes  round  to  see 
me,  and  I  shall  remind  him,  too,  that  I  said  exactly 
the  same  thing  about  Arthur.  'Mr.  Whately/  I  said," 
and  her  voice  trailed  off  into  reminiscences. 

But  though  Mrs.  Curtis  was  in  many — and  indeed 
in  most — ways  a  troublesome  old  fool,  she  was  not  un- 
observant. She  knew  that  a  young  girl  does  not  rush 
into  a  drawing-room  dragging  a  young  man  by  the 
hand  simply  because  that  young  man  has  obtained  a 
lucrative  post  in  a  varnish  factory.  There  must  be 
some  other  cause  for  so  vigorous  an  ebullition.  And 
as  Mrs.  Curtis's  speculation  was  unvexed  by  the  com- 
plexities of  Austrian  psychology,  she  assumed  that 
Roland  and  April  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other. 
She  was  not  surprised.  She  had  indeed  often  won- 
dered why  they  had  not  done  so  before.  April  was 
such  a  dear  girl,  and  Roland  could  be  trained  into 
a  highly  sympathetic  son-in-law.  He  listened  to  her 
conversation  with  respect  and  interest,  whereas  Ralph 
Richmond  insisted  on  interrupting  her.  Roland  would 
make  April  a  good  husband.  Certainly  she  had  been 
temporarily  disquieted  by  Mr.  Whately's  sudden  de- 
cision to  remove  his  son  from  school;  but  no  doubt 


136  ROLAND  WHATELY 

he  had  had  this  post  in  his  mind's  eye  and  had  not 
wished  to  speak  of  it  till  everything  had  been  fixed. 

Mrs.  Curtis's  reverie  traversed  into  an  agreeable 
future;  she  pictured  the  wedding  at  St.  Giles;  they 
would  have  the  full  choir.  There  would  be  a  recep- 
tion afterwards  at  the  Town  Hall.  April  would  look 
so  pretty  in  orange  blossom.  Arthur  would  be  the 
best  man.  He  would  stand  beside  the  bridegroom, 
erect  and  handsome.  "What  fine  children  you  have, 
Mrs.  Curtis!"  That's  what  everyone  would  say  to 
her.  It  would  be  the  prettiest  wedding  there  had  ever 
been  at  St.  Giles.  .  .  .  She  collected  herself  with  a 
start.  She  must  not  be  premature.  Nothing  was  set- 
tled yet;  they  were  not  even  engaged.  And  of  course 
they  could  not  be  engaged  yet:  They  were  too  ab- 
surdly young.  Everyone  would  laugh  at  her.  Still, 
there  might  be  an  understanding.  An  understanding 
was  first  cousin  to  an  engagement;  it  bound  both 
parties.  And  then  April  and  Roland  would  be  al- 
lowed to  go  about  together.  It  would  be  so  nice  for 
them. 

When  Roland  had  gone,  she  fixed  on  her  daughter 
a  deep,  questioning  look,  under  which  April  began  to 
grow  uncomfortable. 

"Well,  mother?"  she  said. 

"You  like  Roland  very  much,  don't  you,  dear?" 

"We're  great  friends." 

"Only  friends?" 

April  did  not  answer,  and  her  mother  repeated  her 
question.  "But  you're  more  than  friends,  aren't  you?" 
But  April  was  still  silent.  Mrs.  Curtis  leaned  for- 
ward and  took  April's  hand,  lifted  for  a  moment  out 
of  her  vain  complacency  by  the  recollection  of  her- 
self as  she  had  been  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  like 
April,  with  life  in  front  of  her.  Through  placid 


YOUNG  LOVE  137 

waters  she  had  come  to  a  safe  anchorage,  and  she 
wondered  whether  for  April  the  cruise  would  be  as 
fortunate,  the  hand  at  the  helm  as  steady.  Her  hus- 
band had  risked  little,  but  Roland  would  scarcely  be 
satisfied  with  safe  travel  beneath  the  cliffs.  Would 
April  be  happier  or  less  happy  than  she  had  been? 
Which  was  the  better — blue  skies,  calm  water,  gently 
throbbing  engines,  or  the  pitch  and  toss  and  crash 
of  heavy  seas? 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  him,  dear?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  mother." 

"And  he's  fond  of  you?" 

"I  think  so,  mother." 

"Has  he  told  you  so,  dear?" 

"Yes." 

A  tear  gathered  in  the  corner  of  her  eye,  stung 
her,  welled,  fell  upon  her  cheek,  and  this  welcome 
relief  recalled  her  to  what  she  considered  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  moment. 

"Of  course  I  shall  have  to  speak  to  the  Whatelys 
about  it." 

A  shocked,  surprised  expression  came  into  April's 
face. 

"Oh,  but  why,  mother?" 

"Because,  my  dear,  they  may  have  other  plans  for 
Roland." 

"But  .  .  .  oh,  mother,  dear,  there's  no  talk  of  en- 
gagements or  anything;  we've  just  ...  oh,  why 
can't  we  go  on  as  we  are?" 

Mrs.  Curtis  was  firm. 

"No,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "it  would  be  fair  neither 
to  you  nor  to  them.  It's  not  only  you  and  Roland 
that  have  to  be  considered.  It's  your  father  and  my- 
self and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whately.  We  shall  have  to 
talk  it  over  together." 


138  ROLAND  WHATELY 

And  so  when  Roland  returned  that  evening  from  an 
afternoon  with  Ralph  he  found  his  father  and  mother 
sitting  in  the  drawing-room  with  Mrs.  Curtis. 

"Ah,  here's  Roland,"  said  Mrs.  Curtis.  '"Come 
along,  Roland,  we've  just  been  talking  about  you." 

Roland  entered  and  sat  on  the  chair  nearest  him. 
He  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  each  in  turn 
smiled  at  him  reassuringly;  their  smile  said,  "Now 
don't  be  nervous.  We  mean  you  well.  You've  only 
got  to  agree  to  our  conditions  and  we'll  be  ever  so  nice 
to  you."  In  the  same  way,  Roland  reflected,  the 
Spanish  Inquisitors  had  recommended  conversion  to 
the  faith  with  a  smile  upon  their  lips,  while  from  the 
adjoining  room  sounds  came  that  the  impenitents 
would  be  wise  to  associate  with  furnaces  and  screws 
and  pliant  steel. 

"Yes,  Roland,"  said  Mr.  Whately,  "we've  been 
talking  about  you  and  April." 

"Damn!"  said  Roland  to  himself.  It  was  like  that 
ridiculous  Dolly  affair  all  over  again.  It  was  useless, 
of  course,  to  be  flustered.  He  was  growing  accus- 
tomed to  this  sort  of  scene.  He  supposed  that  April 
had  got  frightened  and  told  her  mother,  or  perhaps 
the  maidservant  had  seen  them  kissing  in  the  porch. 
In  any  case  it  was  not  very  serious.  They  would 
probably  forbid  him  to  see  April  alone.  It  would  be 
rather  rotten;  but  the  world  was  wide.  In  a  few 
weeks'  time  he  would  be  going  abroad ;  he  could  free 
himself  of  these  entanglements,  and  when  he  returned 
he  would  decide  what  he  should  do.  He  would  be 
economically  independent.  In  the  meantime  let 
them  talk.  He  settled  himself  back  in  his  chair  and 
prepared  to  hear  at  least,  with  patience,  whatever 
they  might  have  to  say  to  him.  What  they  did  have 
to  say  came  to  him  as  a  surprise. 


YOUNG  LOVE  139 

"I  was  talking  to  April  about  it  this  morning,"  said 
Mrs.  Curtis.  "Of  course  I've  noticed  it  for  a  long 
time.  A  mother  can't  help  seeing  these  things.  Sev- 
eral times  I've  said  to  my  husband:  'Father,  dear, 
haven't  you  noticed  that  Roland  and  April  are  be- 
coming very  interested  in  each  other?'  and  he's 
agreed  with  me.  Though  I  haven't  liked  to  say  any- 
thing. But  then  this  morning  it  was  so  very  plain, 
wasn't  it?"  She  paused  and  smiled.  And  Roland 
feeling  that  an  answer  was  expected  of  him,  said  that 
he  supposed  it  was. 

"Yes,  really  quite  clear,  and  so  afterwards  I  had  a 
talk  with  my  little  April  and  she  told  me  all  about  it. 
And,  of  course,  we're  all  of  us  very  pleased  that  you 
should  be  fond  of  one  another,  but  you  must  realize 
that  at  present  you're  much  too  young  for  there  to  be 
any  talk  of  marriage." 

"But  .  .  ."  Roland  began. 

"Yes,  I  know  that  you've  got  a  good  post  in  this 
varnish  factory;  but  as  I  was  saying  to  Mr.  Whately 
before  you  came,  you're  only  on  probation,  and  it's  a 
job  that  means  a  lot  of  traveling  and  expense  that  you 
wouldn't  be  able  to  afford  if  you  were  a  married  man 
or  were  even  contemplating  matrimony." 

"But  .  .  ."  Roland  began  again,  and  again  Mrs. 
Curtis  stopped  him. 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you're  thinking;  you  say  that 
you  are  content  to  wait;  that  four  years,  five  years,  six 
years — it's  nothing  to  you,  that  you  want  to  be  en- 
gaged now.  I  can  quite  understand  it.  We  all  can. 
We've  all  been  young,  but  I'm  quite  certain 
that  .  .  ." 

Roland  could  not  believe  that  it  was  real,  that  he 
was  sitting  in  a  real  room,  that  a  real  woman  was 
talking,  a  real  scene  was  in  the  process  of  enaction. 


140  ROLAND  WHATELY 

He  listened  in  a  stupefied  amazement.  What,  after 
all,  had  happened?  He  had  kissed  April  three  times. 
She  had  asked  no  vows  and  he  had  given  none.  They 
were  lovers  he  supposed,  but  they  were  boy  and  girl 
lovers.  The  romances  of  the  nursery  should  not  be 
taken  seriously.  By  holding  April's  hand  and  kissing 
her  had  he  decided  the  course  of  both  their  lives? 
What  were  they  about,  these  three  solemn  people, 
with  their  talk  of  marriage  and  engagements? 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  he  began. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  do,"  Mrs.  Curtis  interrupted.  "We 
old  people  know  more  than  you  think." 

And  she  began  to  speak  in  her  droning,  mellifluous 
voice  of  the  sanctity  of  love  and  of  the  good  fortune 
that  had  led  him  so  early  to  his  affinity.  And  then 
all  three  of  them  began  to  speak  together,  and  their 
words  beat  like  hammers  upon  Roland's  head,  till  he 
did  not  know  where  he  was,  nor  what  they  were  say- 
ing to  him.  "It  can't  be  real,"  he  told  himself.  "It's 
preposterous.  People  don't  behave  like  this  in  real 
life."  And  when  his  mother  came  across  and  kissed 
him  on  the  forehead  and  said,  "We're  all  so  happy, 
Roland,"  he  employed  every  desperate  device  to  re- 
call himself  to  reality  that  he  was  accustomed  to  use 
when  involved  in  a  nightmare.  He  fixed  his  thoughts 
upon  one  issue,  focused  all  his  powers  on  that  one 
point:  "I  will  wake  up.  I  will  wake  up." 

And  even  when  it  was  all  over,  and  he  was  in  his 
bedroom  standing  before  the  looking-glass  to  arrange 
his  tie,  he  could  not  believe  that  it  had  really  hap- 
pened. It  was  impossible  that  grown-up  people 
should  be  so  foolish.  He  could  understand  that  Mrs. 
Curtis  should  be  annoyed  at  his  attentions  to  her 
daughter.  He  had  been  prepared  for  that.  If  she  had 
said,  "Roland,  you're  both  of  you  too  old  for  that.  It 


YOUNG  LOVE  141 

was  well  enough  when  you  were  both  children,  but  it 
won't  do  now;  April  is  growing  up,"  he  could  have 
appreciated  her  point  of  view.  Perhaps  they  were  too 
old  for  the  love-making  of  childhood.  But  that  she 
should  take  up  the  attitude  that  they  were  too  young 
for  the  serious  matrimonial  entanglements  of  man 
and  womanhood!  It  was  beyond  the  expectation  of 
any  sane  intelligence. 

In  a  way  he  could  not  help  feeling  annoyed  with 
April.  If  she  had  not  told  her  mother  nothing  would 
have  happened. 

"Oh,  but  how  silly,"  she  said,  when  he  told  her 
about  it  next  day.  "I  do  wish  I  had  been  there.  It 
must  have  been  awfully  funny!" 

Roland  had  not  considered  it  in  that  light  and 
hastened  to  tell  her  so. 

"I  felt  a  most  appalling  fool.  It  was  beastly.  I 
•can't  think  why  you  told  your  mother  anything  about 
it." 

She  looked  up  quickly,  surprised  by  the  note  of 
impatience  in  his  voice. 

"But,  Roland,  dear,  what  else  could  I  do?  She 
asked  me  and  I  couldn't  tell  a  lie.  Could  I?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Roland.  And  he  began  to  walk 
backwards  and  forwards,  up  and  down  the  room.  "I 
suppose  you  couldn't  help  it,  but  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  what 
did  you  say  to  her?" 

"Nothing  much.  She  asked  me  .  .  .  Oh,  but, 
Roland,  do  sit  down,"  she  pleaded.  "I  can't  talk 
when  you're  walking  up  and  down  the  room." 

"All  right,"  said  Roland,  sitting  down.    "Go  on." 

"Well,  she  asked  me  if  I  liked  you  and  I  said  that 
we  were  great  friends,  and  then  she  asked  if  we 
weren't  more  than  friends." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Roland,  rising  im- 


142  ROLAND  WHATELY 

patiently  from  his  chair  and  walking  across  the  room. 
"Of  course  you  said  we  were,  and  that  I  had  been 
making  love  to  you,  and  that — oh,  but  what's  the 
good  of  going  on  with  it?  I  know  what  she  said  and 
what  you  said,  and  the  whole  thing  was  out  in  three 
minutes,  and  then  your  mother  comes  round  to  my 
mother  and  they  talk  and  they  talk,  and  that's  how 
all  the  trouble  in  the  world  begins." 

While  he  was  actually  speaking  he  was  sustained 
by  the  white  heat  of  his  impatience,  but  the  moment 
he  had  stopped  he  was  bitterly  ashamed  of  himself. 
What  had  he  done?  What  had  he  said?  And  April's 
silence  accentuated  his  shame.  She  neither  turned 
angrily  upon  him  nor  burst  into  tears.  She  sat 
quietly,  her  hands  clasped  in  front  of  her  knees,  look- 
ing at  the  floor. 

After  a  while  she  rose  and  walked  across  to  the 
window.  Her  back  was  turned  to  him.  He  felt  that 
he  must  do  something  to  shatter  the  poignant  silence. 
He  drew  close  to  her  and  touched  her  hand  with  his, 
but  she  drew  her  hand  away  quietly,  without  haste  or 
anger. 

"April,"  he  began,  "I'm  .  .  ." 

But  she  stopped  him.  "Don't  say  anything.  Please 
don't  say  anything." 

"But  I  must,  April.  I've  been  a  beast.  I  didn't 
mean  it." 

"It's  quite  all  right.  I've  been  very  foolish.  There's 
nothing  more  to  be  said." 

Her  voice  was  calm  and  level.  She  kept  her  back 
turned  to  him,  distant  and  unapproachable.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  do  nor  what  to  say.  He  had  been 
a  beast  to  her.  He  knew  it.  And  because  he  had 
wronged  her,  because  she  had  made  him  feel  ashamed 
of  himself,  he  was  angry  with  her. 


YOUNG  LOVE  143 

"Oh,  very  well  then,"  he  said.  "If  you  won't  talk 
to  me,  I'm  going  home." 

He  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  room.  In  the 
porch  he  waited  for  a  moment,  thinking  that  she 
would  call  after  him.  But  no  sound  came  from  the 
drawing-room,  not  even  the  rustle  of  clothes,  that 
might  have  indicated  the  change  of  her  position. 
"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "if  she's  going  to  sulk,  let  her 
sulk,"  and  he  walked  out  of  the  house. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  he  endured  the  humiliating 
discomfort  of  contrition.  He  was  honest  with  himself. 
He  made  no  attempt  to  excuse  his  behavior.  There 
was  no  excuse  for  it.  He  had  behaved  like  a  cad. 
There  was  only  one  thing  to  do  and  that  was  to  grovel 
as  soon  as  possible.  It  would  be  an  undignified  pro- 
ceeding, but  he  was  quite  ready  to  do  it,  if  he  could  be 
certain  that  the  performance  would  be  accepted  in  the 
right  spirit.  It  was  not  easy  to  grovel  before  a  person 
who  turned  her  back  on  you,  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow and  refused  to  listen  to  what  you  had  to  say. 

When  evening  came  he  decided  that  he  might  do 
worse  than  make  a  reconnaissance  of  the  enemy's 
country  under  the  guidance  of  an  armed  escort — in 
other  words,  that  if  he  paid  a  visit  to  the  Curtises' 
with  his  father  he  would  be  able  to  see  April  without 
having  the  embarrassment  of  a  private  talk  forced 
on  him. 

And  so  when  Mr.  Whately  returned  from  the  office 
he  found  his  son  waiting  to  take  him  for  a  walk. 

"What  a  pleasant  surprise,"  he  said.  "I  never  ex- 
pected to  find  you  here.  I  thought  you  would  be 
spending  all  your  time  with  April  now." 

Roland  laughed. 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "I  thought  we 
might  go  round  and  see  the  Curtises  together." 


144  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"And  you  thought  you  wanted  a  chaperon?" 

"Hardly  that." 

"But  you  felt  shy  of  facing  the  old  woman?" 

"That's  more  like  it." 

"All  right,  then,  we'll  tackle  her  together." 

Roland  was  certain,  when  they  arrived,  that  the 
idea  of  employing  his  father  as  a  shield  was  in  the 
nature  of  an  inspiration.  April  received  him  without 
a  smile;  she  did  not  even  shake  hands  with  him. 
Fortunately,  in  the  effusion  of  Mrs.  Curtis's  welcome, 
this  omission  was  not  noticed. 

"I'm  so.  glad  you  have  come,  both  of  you.  April 
told  me,  Roland,  that  you  had  been  round  to  see  her 
this  morning,  and  I  must  say  I  began  to  feel  afraid 
that  I  should  never  see  you  again.  I  thought  you 
would  only  want  to  come  round  when  you  could  have 
April  all  to  yourself.  It  would  have  been  such  a  dis- 
appointment to  me  if  you  had;  I  should  have  so 
missed  our  little  evening  talks.  As  I  was  saying  to  my 
husband  only  yesterday,  'I  don't  know  what  we  should 
do  without  the  Whatelys/  and  he  agreed  with  me. 
You  know,  Mr.  Whately,  there  are  some  people  whom 
we  quite  like,  but  whom  we  shouldn't  miss  in  the  least 
if  they  went  away  and  we  never  saw  them  again,  and 
there  are  others  who  would  leave  a  real  gap.  It's 
funny,  isn't  it?  And  it's  so  nice,  now,  to  think  that 
Roland  and  April — though  we  mustn't  talk  like  that, 
must  we,  or  they'll  begin  to  think  they're  engaged. 
And  we  couldn't  allow  that,  could  we,  Mr.  Whately?" 

His  body  rattled  with  a  deep  chuckle.  Out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye  Roland  flung  a  glance  at  April,  to 
see  what  effect  this  wind  of  words  was  having  on  her, 
but  her  face  was  turned  from  him. 

Mrs.  Curtis  then  proceeded  to  speak  of  Arthur  and 
of  the  letter  she  had  received  from  him  by  the  eve- 


YOUNG  LOVE  145 

ning  post.  "He  says — now  what  is  it  that  he  says? 
Ah,  yes,  here  it  is;  he  says,  'As  I  am  too  old  for  the 
Junior  games,  I  have  been  moved  into  the  Senior 
League.'  Now  that's  very  satisfactory,  isn't  it,  Mr. 
Whately,  that  he  should  be  in  the  Senior  League? 
I  always  said  he  would  be  good  at  games,  and  April 
too,  Mr.  Whately;  she  would  have  been  very  good  at 
games  if  she  had  played  them.  When  they  used  to  play 
cricket  in  the  nursery  she  used  to  hit  at  the  ball  so 
well,  with  her  arms,  you  know.  She  would  have  been 
very  good,  but  she  hasn't  had  the  time  and  they  don't 
go  in  for  games  very  much  at  St.  Stephen's.  Now 
what  do  you  think  of  that  new  frock  of  hers?  I  got 
it  so  cheap — you  can't  think  how  cheaply  I  got  it. 
And  then  I  got  Miss  Smithers  to  make  it  up  for  her, 
and  April  looks  so  pretty  in  it;  don't  you  think  so, 
Mr.  Whately?" 

"Charming,  of  course,  Mrs.  Curtis,  absolutely 
charming.!" 

"I  thought  you'd  like  it.  And  I'm  sure  Roland  does 
too,  though  he  would  be  too  shy  to  own  to  it.  You 
know,  Mr.  Whately,  I  felt  like  telling  her  when  she 
put  it  on  that  Roland  would  have  to  be  very  careful 
or  he  would  find  a  lot  of  rivals  when  he  came  back 
from  Brussels." 

It  was  more  than  April  could  bear.  She  had  en- 
dured a  great  deal  that  day  and  this  was  the  final 
ignominy. 

"How  can  you,  mother?"  she  said.  "How  can  you?" 
and  jumping  to  her  feet,  she  ran  out  of  the  room, 
slamming  the  door  behind  her. 

The  sudden  crash  reverberated  through  the  awk- 
ward silence;  then  came  the  soft  caressing  voice  of 
Mrs.  Curtis:  "I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Whately;  I  don't 
know  what  April  can  be  thinking  of.  But  she's  like 


146  ROLAND  WHATELY 

that  sometimes.  These  young  people  are  so  difficult ; 
one  doesn't  know  where  to  find  them.  Yes,  that's 
right,  Roland,  run  and  see  if  you  can't  console  her." 

For  Roland  had  risen,  moved  deeply  by  the  sight 
of  April's  misery,  her  pathetic  weakness.  It  was  not 
fair.  First  of  all  he  had  been  beastly  to  her,  then  her 
mother  had  made  a  fool  of  her.  He  found  her  in  the 
dining  room,  huddled  on  a  chair  beside  the  fire.  She 
turned  at  once  to  him  for  sympathy.  She  stretched 
out  her  arms,  and  he  ran  towards  them,  knelt  before 
her  and  buried  his  face  in  her  lap. 

"We  have  been  such  beasts  to  you,  April,  all  of  us. 
I  have  felt  so  miserable  about  it  all  day.  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  I  thought  you  would  never  forgive 
me.  I  don't  deserve  to  be  forgiven;  but  I  love  you; 
I  do,  really  awfully!" 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said;  "don't  worry,"  and 
placing  her  hand  beneath  his  chin  she  raised  gently 
his  face  to  hers. 

It  was  a  long  kiss,  one  of  those  long  passionless 
kisses  of  sympathy,  pity  and  contrition  that  smooth 
out  all  difficulties,  as  a  wave  that  passes  over  a  stretch 
of  sand  leaving  behind  it  a  shining  surface.  For  a 
long  while  they  sat  in  each  other's  arms,  saying  noth- 
ing, his  fingers  playing  with  her  hair,  her  lips  from 
moment  to  moment  meeting  his.  When  at  last  they 
reverted  to  the  subject  of  their  morning's  quarrel 
there  was  little  possibility  of  dissension. 

It  was  with  a  gay  smile  that  she  asked  him  why 
he  had  been  so  angry  with  her.  "Why  shouldn't  our 
parents  know,  Roland?  They  would  have  had  to 
some  day." 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  but " 

"And  surely,  Roland,  dear,"  she  continued,  "it's 
better  for  us  that  they  should  know.  I  should  have 


YOUNG  LOVE  147 

hated  having  to  do  things  in  secret.  It  would  have 
been  exciting,  of  course;  I  know  that;  but  it  wouldn't 
have  been  fair  to  them,  would  it?  They  are  so  fond 
of  us;  they  ought  to  have  a  share  hi  our  happiness." 

"That's  just  what  I  felt,"  Roland  objected.  "I 
had  felt  that  our  love  had  ceased  to  be  our  own,  that 
they  had  taken  too  big  a  share  of  it.  It  didn't  seem 
to  be  our  love  affair  any  longer." 

"Oh,  you  silly  darling!"  and  she  laughed  happily, 
relieved  of  her  fear  that  there  might  be  some  deeper 
cause  for  Roland's  behavior  to  her.  "Why  should 
you  worry  about  that?  What  does  it  matter  if  other 
people  do  know  about  it?  Why,  what's  an  engage- 
ment but  a  letting  of  a  lot  of  other  people  into  our 
secret;  and  when  we're  married,  why,  that's  a  telling 
of  everyone  in  the  whole  world  that  we're  in  love  with 
one  another.  What  does  it  matter  if  others  know?" 

"I  suppose  it  doesn't,"  Roland  dubiously  admitted. 

"Of  course  it  doesn't.  The  only  thing  that  does 
matter,"  she  said,  twisting  a  lock  of  his  hair  round 
her  little  finger  and  smiling  at  him  through  half- 
closed  eyes,  "is  that  we've  made  up  our  silly  quarrel 
and  are  friends  again,"  and  bending  forward  she 
kissed  him  quietly  and  happily. 

He  was  naturally  relieved  that  the  sympathy  be- 
tween them  had  been  reestablished;  but  he  realized 
how  little  he  had  made  her  appreciate  his  misgivings. 
Indeed,  he  would  have  found  it  hard  to  explain  them 
to  himself.  Their  love  was  no  longer  fresh  and  spon- 
taneous. Its  growth,  as  that  of  a  wild  flower  that  is 
taken  from  a  hedge  and  planted  in  a  conservatory, 
would  be  no  longer  natural.  Other  hands  would  tend 
it.  In  April's  mind  the  course  of  love  was  marked  by 
certain  fixed  boundaries — the  avowal,  the  engage- 
ment, the  marriage  service.  She  did  not  conceive  of 


148  ROLAND  WHATELY 

love  as  existing  outside  these  limits.  She  had  never 
been  in  love  before;  and  naturally  she  regarded  love 
as  a  state  of  mind  into  which  one  was  suddenly  and 
miraculously  surprised,  and  in  which  one  continued 
until  the  end  of  one's  life.  There  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  think  differently.  Her  training  had  taught 
her  that  love  could  not  exist  outside  marriage — mar- 
riage that  ordained  one  woman  for  one  man. 

But  it  was  different  for  Roland,  who  had  learned 
from  the  vivid  and  fleeting  romances  of  his  boyhood 
that  love  comes  and  goes,  irresponsible  as  the  wind 
that  at  one  moment  is  shaking  among  the  branches, 
scattering  the  leaves,  tossing  them  in  the  air,  only  to 
subside  a  moment  later  into  calm. 

These  misgivings  passed  quickly  enough,  however, 
in  the  delightful  novelty  of  the  situation.  It  was 
great  fun  being  in  love ;  to  wake  in  the  early  morning 
with  the  knowledge  that  as  soon  as  breakfast  was 
over  you  would  run  down  the  road  and  be  welcomed 
by  a  charming  girl,  whom  you  would  counsel  to  shut 
the  door  behind  you  quickly  so  that  you  could  kiss  her 
before  anyone  knew  you  were  in  the  house,  who  would 
then  tilt  up  her  face  prettily  to  yours.  It  was  charm- 
ing to  sit  with  her  in  the  drawing-room  and  hold  her 
hand  and  rest  your  cheek  against  hers,  to  answer  such 
questions  as,  "When  did  you  first  begin  to  love  me?" 

Often  they  would  go  for  walks  together  in  the  au- 
tumn sunshine;  occasionally  they  would  take  a  bus 
and  ride  out  to  Kew  or  Hampstead,  and  sit  on  the 
green  grass  and  hold  hands  and  talk  of  the  future. 
These  talks  were  a  delicious  excitant  to  Roland's 
vanity.  His  ambitions  were  strengthened  by  her 
faith  in  him.  He  saw  himself  rich  and  famous. 
"We'll  have  a  wonderful  house,  with  stables  and  an 
orchard,  and  we'll  have  a  private  cricket  ground  and 


YOUNG  LOVE  149 

we'll  get  a  pro.  down  from  Lord's  to  look  after  it. 
And  we'll  have  fine  parties  in  the  summer — cricket 
and  tennis  during  the  day,  and  dances  in  the 
evening!" 

"And  a  funny  little  cottage,"  she  would  murmur, 
"somewhere  down  the  river,  for  when  we  want  to  be 
all  by  ourselves." 

It  was  exciting,  too,  when  other  people,  grown-up 
people,  made  significant  remarks. 

One  afternoon  he  was  at  a  tea-party  and  a  lady 
asked  him  if  he  would  come  round  to  lunch  with  them 
the  next  day.  "We've  got  a  nephew  of  ours  stopping 
with  us.  An  awfully  jolly  boy.  I'm  sure  you  and  he 
would  get  on  well  together."  Roland,  however,  had 
to  excuse  himself  on  the  grounds  of  a  previous 
engagement. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I've  promised 
to  go  on  the  river." 

"With  April  Curtis?    Ah,  I  thought  so." 

And  the  smile  that  accompanied  the  question  made 
Roland  feel  very  grown  up  and  important. 

These  weeks  of  preparation  for  the  foreign  tour 
Roland  considered  however,  in  spite  of  their  charm,  as 
an  interlude,  a  pause  in  the  serious  affairs  of  life. 
It  was  thus  that  he  had  always  regarded  his  holidays. 
He  had  divided  with  a  hard  line  his  life  at  school  and 
his  life  at  home.  The  two  were  unrelated.  April 
and  Ralph,  his  parents  and  the  Curtises  belonged  to 
a  world  that  must  remain  for  him  always  episodic. 
It  was  a  pleasant  world  in  which  from  time  to  time 
he  might  care  to  sojourn.  But  what  happened  to  him 
there  was  of  no  great  importance. 

As  he  leaned  over  the  taffrail  of  the  steamer  and 
felt  the  deck  throb  under  him  he  knew  that  his  real 
life  had  begun  again.  What  significance  had  these  en- 


150  ROLAND  WHATELY 

cumbrances  of  his  home  life  if  he  could  cast  them  off 
so  easily?  Already  they  were  slipping  from  him. 
The  waves  beat  against  the  side  of  the  ship,  splashing 
the  spray  across  the  deck,  and  the  sting  of  the  water 
on  his  face  filled  him  with  a  buoyant  confidence. 
The  thud  of  the  engines  beat  through  his  body  to  a 
tune  of  triumph. 
The  gray  line  that  was  England  faded  and  was  lost. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  VARNISH 

A  SEPARATION  of  six  months  makes  in  the 
middle  years  of  a  man's  life  little  break  in  a 
relationship.  Human  life  was  compared  over  two 
thousand  years  ago  by  a  Greek  philosopher  to  the 
stream  that  is  never  the  same  from  one  moment  to 
another.  And  though,  indeed,  nothing  is  permanent, 
though  everything  is  in  flux,  the  stream  during  the 
later  stages  of  its  passage  flows  quietly  through  soft 
meadows  to  the  sea.  A  man  of  forty-five  who  has 
been  married  for  several  years  may  leave  his  family 
to  go  abroad  and  returning  at  the  end  of  the  year 
find  his  wife,  his  home,  his  friends,  to  all  appearances, 
exactly  as  he  left  them. 

Roland  returned  from  Belgium  a  different  person. 
He  was  no  longer  a  schoolboy;  he  was  a  business  man. 
He  had  been  introduced  to  big  financiers;  he  had 
listened  to  the  discussion  of  important  deals;  he  had 
witnessed  the  signatures  of  contracts.  In  the  eve- 
nings he  had  sat  with  Marston  and  gone  carefully 
over  the  accounts  of  the  day's  transactions. 

"There's  not  much  profit  here,"  Marston  would 
say,  "hardly  any,  in  fact,  when  we've  taken  over-head 
charges,  office  expenses  and  all  that  into  considera- 
tion. But  we're  not  out  for  profits  just  now.  We're 
building  up  connections.  If  we  can  make  these  for- 
eign deals  pay  their  way  we're  all  right.  We  shall 

151 


152  ROLAND  WHATELY 

crowd  the  other  fellows  out  of  the  market,  we  shall 
make  ourselves  indispensable,  and  then  we  can  shove 
our  prices  as  high  as  we  blooming  well  like." 

To  Roland  it  was  a  game,  with  the  thrills,  the  dan- 
gers, the  recompenses  of  a  game.  He  did  not  look  on 
business  as  part  of  the  social  fabric.  He  did  not  re- 
gard wealth  as  a  thing  important  in  itself.  A  credit 
balance  was  like  a  score  at  cricket.  You  were  setting 
your  brains  against  an  opponent's.  You  made  as 
many  pounds  as  you  could  against  his  bowling.  He 
did  not  allow  first  principles  to  attach  disquieting 
corollaries.  He  did  not  ask  himself  whether.it  was 
just  for  a  big  firm  to  undersell  their  smaller  rivals  and 
drive  them  out  of  the  market  by  the  simple  expedient 
of  taking  money  out  of  one  pocket  and  putting  it  into 
another.  Business  was  a  game ;  if  one  was  big  enough 
to  take  risks  one  took  them. 

Within  a  month  Gerald  was  writing  home  to  his 
father  with  genuine  enthusiasm. 

"He  really  is  first  class,  father.  I  thought  he  would 
be  pretty  useful,  but  I  never  expected  him  to  be  a 
patch  on  what  he  is.  He's  really  keen  on  the  job  and 
he's  got  the  hang  of  it  already.  He  ought  to  do  jolly 
well  when  he  comes  out  here  alone.  The  big  men  like 
him;  old  Rosenheim  told  me  the  other  day  that  it 
was  a  pleasure  to  see  him  about  the  place.  'Such  a 
relief/  he  said,  'after  the  dried-up,  hard-chinned  pro- 
vincials that  pester  me  from  morning  to  night.'  I 
believe  it's  the  best  thing  we  ever  did,  getting  Roland 
into  the  business." 

Roland,  realizing  that  his  work  was  appreciated, 
grew  confident  and  hopeful  of  the  future.  They  were 
happy  days. 

It  is  not  easy  to  explain  the  friendship  of  two  men. 
And  Roland  would  have  been  unable  to  say  why  ex- 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  VARNISH  153 

actly  he  valued  the  companionship  and  esteem  of 
Gerald  Marston  more  highly  than  that  of  the  many 
boys,  such  as  Ralph  Richmond,  whom  he  had  known 
longer  and,  on  the  whole,  more  intimately.  Gerald 
never  said  anything  brilliant ;  he  was  not  particularly 
amusing;  he  was  often  irritable  and  moody.  But 
from  the  moment  when  he  had  seen  him  for  the  first 
time  in  Brewster's  study  Roland  had  recognized  in 
him  a  potential  friend.  Later,  when  they  had  met  at 
the  Oval,  he  had  felt  that  they  understood  each  other, 
that  they  spoke  the  same  language,  that  there  was 
between  them  no  need  for  the  usual  preliminaries  of 
friendship.  And  during  their  weeks  in  France  and 
Belgium  this  relationship  or  intuition  was  fortified  by 
the  sharing  of  common  interests  and  common  ad- 
ventures. 

The  majority  of  these  adventures  were,  it  must  be 
confessed,  of  doubtful  morality,  for  it  was  only  natural 
that  Roland  and  Gerald  should  in  their  spare  time 
amuse  themselves  after  the  fashion  of  most  young 
men  who  find  themselves  alone  in  a  foreign  city. 

In  the  evenings,  after  they  had  balanced  their  ac- 
counts, they  used  to  walk  through  the  warm  lighted 
streets,  surrounded  by  the  stir  of  a  world  waking  to  a 
night  of  pleasure,  select  a  brightly  colored  cafe,  sit 
back  on  the  red  plush  couch  that  ran  the  length  of  the 
room,  and  order  iced  champagne.  The  band  would 
play  soft,  sentimental  music  that,  mixing  with  the 
wine  in  their  heads,  would  render  them  eager,  daring 
and  responsive,  and  when  two  girls  walked  slowly 
down  the  center  of  the  room,  swaying  from  the  hips, 
and  casting  to  left  and  right  sidelong,  alluring  glances, 
naturally  they  smiled  back,  and  indicated  two  vacant 
seats  on  either  side  of  them.  Then  there  would  be 
talk  and  laughter  and  more  champagne,  and  after- 


154  ROLAND  WHATELY 

wards  .  .  .  But  what  happened  afterwards  was  of 
small  importance.  Gerald  had  had  too  much  experi- 
ence to  derive  much  excitement  from  bought  kisses. 
And  for  Roland,  these  romances  were  the  focus  of 
little  more  than  a  certain  lukewarm  kindliness  and 
curiosity.  They  were  not  degrading,  because  they 
were  not  regarded  so.  They  were  equally  unromantic, 
because  neither  was  particularly  interested  in  the 
other.  Indeed,  Roland  was  a  little  dismayed  to  find 
how  slight,  on  the  whole,  was  the  pleasure,  even  the 
physical  pleasure,  that  he  received  from  his  com- 
panion's transports;  these  experiences,  far  from  hav- 
ing the  devastating  effect  that  they  are  popularly 
supposed  to  have  on  a  young  man's  character,  would 
have  had  in  Roland's  life  no  more  significance  than 
an  act  of  solitary  indulgence,  had  they  not  been  an- 
other bond  between  himself  and  Gerald.  And  this 
they  most  certainly  were. 

It  was  amusing  to  meet  in  the  morning  afterwards 
and  exchange  confidences.  And  as  everything  is 
transmuted  by  the  imagination,  Roland  in  a  little 
while  came  to  look  on  those  evenings — the  wine,  the 
music,  the  rustle  of  skirts,  the  low  laughter — not  as 
they  had  been  actually,  but  as  he  would  have  wished 
to  have  them.  They  became  for  him  a  gracious  revel. 
And  in  London  his  thoughts  would  wander  often  from 
his  ink-stained  desk,  from  the  screech  of  the  tele- 
phone, from  the  eternal  tapping  of  the  typewriter,  to 
those  brightly  colored  cafes,  with  their  atmosphere  of 
warm  comfort,  the  soft  sensuous  music,  the  cool 
sparkling  champagne,  the  low  whisper  at  his  elbow. 
When  he  went  out  to  lunch  with  Marston  he  would 
frequently  contrast  the  glitter  of  a  Brussels  restau- 
rant with  the  tawdry  furniture  and  over-heated  at- 
mosphere of  a  City  eating-house. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  VARNISH  155 

"A  bit  different  this,  isn't  it?"  he  would  say.  "Do 
you  remember  that  evening  when  we  went  down  the 
Rue  de  la  Madeleine  and  found  a  cafe  in  that  little 
side  street?" 

"That  was  where  we  met  the  jolly  little  girl  in  the 
blue  dress,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes.  And  do  you  remember  what  she  said  about 
the  old  Padre?" 

And  they  would  laugh  together  over  the  indelicacies 
that  had  slipped  so  charmingly  in  broken  English 
from  those  red  lips. 

But  Gerald  was  the  one  figure  that  remained  dis- 
tinct for  Roland.  The  girls,  for  the  most  part,  re- 
sembled each  other  so  closely  that  he  could  only  in 
rare  instances  recall  their  features  or  what  they  had 
worn  or  what  they  had  said.  He  remembered  far 
more  vividly  his  walks  with  Gerald  through  the 
lighted  streets,  their  confidences  and  hesitations. 
Should  they  go  into  this  cafe  or  into  that;  and  then 
when  they  had  selected  their  cafe  how  Gerald  would 
open  the  wine  list  and  carefully  run  his  finger  down 
the  page,  while  the  waiter  would  hover  over  him: 
"Yes,  yes,  sir,  a  very  good  wine  that,  sir,  a  very  good 
wine  indeed ! "  And  then  when  the  wine  was  ordered 
how  they  would  look  round  at  the  girls  who  sat  in 
couples  at  the  marble-topped  tables,  sipping  a  citron 
or  a  bock.  "What  do  you  think  of  that  couple  over 
there?"  "Not  bad,  but  let's  wait  a  bit;  something 
better  may  turn  up  soon";  and  a  little  later:  "Oh, 
look,  that  girl  over  there,  the  one  with  the  green  dress, 
just  beneath  the  picture;  try  and  catch  her  eye,  she 
looks  ripping!"  They  had  been  more  exciting,  those 
moments  of  expectation,  than  the  subsequent 
embraces. 

Gerald  was  always  the  dominant  figure. 


156  ROLAND  WHATELY 

It  was  the  expression  of  Gerald's  face  that  Roland 
remembered  most  clearly  on  that  disappointing  eve- 
ning when  they  had  taken  two  chorus  girls  to  dinner 
at  a  private  room  and  Roland's  selected  had  refused 
champagne  and  preferred  fried  sole  to  pheasant — an 
abstinence  so  alarming  that,  in  spite  of  Roland's  pro- 
tests, Gerald  had  suddenly  decided  that  they  would 
have  to  catch  a  train  to  Paris  that  evening  instead  of 
being  able  to  wait  till  the  morning. 

And  it  was  Gerald  whom  Roland  particularly  asso- 
ciated with  the  memory  of  that  ignominious  occasion 
on  which  he  had  thought  at  last  to  have  discovered 
real  romance. 

They  had  dropped  into  a  restaurant  in  the  after- 
noon for  a  cup  of  chocolate,  and  had  seen  sitting  by 
herself  a  girl  who  could  hardly  have  been  twenty 
years  of  age.  She  wore  a  wide-brimmed  hat,  under 
which  Roland  could  just  see,  as  she  bent  her  head 
over  her  ice,  the  tip  of  her  nose,  the  smooth  curve  of  a 
cheek,  the  strain  on  the  muscles  of  her  neck.  She 
raised  the  spoon  delicately  to  her  mouth,  her  lips 
closed  on  it  and  held  it  there.  Her  eyelids  appeared 
to  droop  in  a  sort  of  sensual  contentment.  Roland 
watched  her,  fascinated;  watched  her  till  she  drew 
the  spoon  slowly  from  her  mouth.  She  lingered  pen- 
sively, and  between  the  even  rows  of  her  white  teeth 
the  red  tip  of  her  tongue  played  for  a  moment  on  the 
spoon.  At  that  moment  she  raised  her  eyes,  observed 
that  Roland  was  staring  at  her,  smiled,  and  dropped 
her  eyes  again. 

"Did  you  see  that?"  whispered  Roland  excitedly. 
"She  smiled  at  me,  and  she's  ripping!  I  must  go  and 
speak  to  her!" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Gerald;  "a  smile  may  not 
mean  anything.  Besides,  she's  obviously  not  a  tart 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  VARNISH  157 

and  she  may  be  known  here.  If  she  is  she  won't  want 
to  be  seen  talking  to  a  stranger.  You  sit  still,  like  a 
good  boy,  and  see  if  she  smiles  at  you  again." 

Against  his  will  Roland  consented.  But  he  had  his 
reward  a  few  minutes  later  when  she  turned  her  chair 
to  catch  the  waitress's  attention,  and  her  eyes,  meet- 
ing his,  smiled  at  them  again — a  challenging,  alluring 
smile,  that  seemed  to  say,  "Well,  are  you  brave 
enough?"  He  was  dismayed,  however,  to  notice  that 
she  had  turned  in  order  to  ask  for  her  bill.  He  saw 
her  run  her  eye  down  the  slip  of  paper,  take  some 
money  from  her  purse  and  begin  to  button  on  her 
gloves,  long  gauntlet  gloves  that  fastened  above  the 
elbow. 

"She's  going!  what  shall  I  do?"  he  asked. 

For  answer  Marston  took  a  piece  of  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  wrote  on  it:  "Meet  me  at  the  Cafe  des 
Colombes  to-night  at  eight-thirty." 

"Now,  walk  up  to  the  counter  and  pretend  to 
choose  a  cake ;  if  she  wants  to  see  any  more  of  you  she 
will  drop  her  handkerchief,  or  purse,  or  at  any  rate 
give  you  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her;  if  she 
does,  slip  this  note  into  her  hand.  If  she  doesn't,  you 
can  buy  me  an  eclair,  and  thank  your  lucky  stars  that 
you've  been  preserved  from  making  a  most  abandoned 
fool  of  yourself." 

Roland  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  to  the  counter 
that  he  tripped  against  a  table  and  only  saved  himself 
from  falling  by  gripping  violently  the  shoulder  of  an 
elderly  bourgeois.  By  the  time  he  had  completed  his 
apologies  his  charmer  had  very  nearly  reached  the 
door. 

"It's  all  up,"  he  told  himself;  "she  thinks  me  a 
clumsy  fool,  that  it's  not  worth  her  while  to  worry 
about.  I  ought  to  have  gone  straight  up  to  her  at 


158  ROLAND  WHATELY 

once";  and  he  followed  with  dejected  eyes  her  prog- 
ress towards  the  door. 

She  was  carrying  in  one  hand  an  umbrella  and  in 
the  other  a  little  velvet  bag.  As  she  raised  her  hand 
to  open  the  door,  the  bag  slipped  from  her  fingers  and 
fell  upon  the  floor.  There  were  three  persons  nearer 
to  the  bag  than  Roland,  but  before  even  a  hand  had 
been  stretched  out  to  it  he  had  precipitated  himself 
forward,  had  picked  it  up  and  was  handing  it  to  the 
lady.  She  smiled  at  him  with  gracious  gratitude. 
So  far  all  had  gone  splendidly.  Then  he  began  to 
fumble.  The  note  was  in  the  other  hand,  and  in  the 
flurry  of  the  moment  he  did  not  know  how  to 
maneuver  the  bag  and  the  note  into  the  same  hand. 
First  of  all,  he  tried  to  change  the  bag  from  the  right 
hand  to  the  left.  But  his  forefinger  and  thumb  were 
so  closely  engaged  with  the  note  that  the  remaining 
three  fingers  failed  to  grasp  the  handle  of  the  bag. 
He  made  a  furious  dive  and  caught  the  bag  in  his 
right  hand  just  before  it  reached  the  floor.  Panic  seized 
him.  He  lost  all  sense  of  the  proprieties.  He  handed 
the  bag  straight  to  her,  and  then  realizing,  before  she 
had  had  time  to  take  it  from  him,  that  somehow  or 
other  the  note  also  had  to  come  into  her  possession, 
he  offered  it  to  her  between  the  forefinger  and  thumb 
of  his  left  hand  with  less  secrecy  than  he  would  have 
displayed  in  giving  a  tip  to  a  waiter.  The  sudden 
change  of  the  lady's  expression  from  inviting  kindli- 
ness to  a  surprised  affronted  indignation  threw  him 
into  so  acute  a  fever  of  embarrassment  that  once 
again  he  endeavored  to  move  the  bag  from  the  right 
hand  to  the  left.  Again  he  fumbled,  but  with  a  dif- 
ferent result.  He  piloted  the  bag  successfully  into 
the  lady's  hands,  but  allowed  the  note  to  slip  from 
between  his  fingers.  It  fell  face  upwards  on  the  floor. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  VARNISH  159 

Several  ways  of  escape  were  open  to  him.  He 
might  have  affected  unconcern,  and  either  picked  up 
the  piece  of  paper  or  left  it  where  it  lay.  He  might 
have  kicked  the  note  away  and  walked  forward  to 
open  the  door.  He  might  have  placed  his  foot  on  the 
note  till  the  attention  of  the  room  was  once  again 
directed  to  its  separate  interests.  None  of  these 
things,  however,  did  he  do.  He  did  what  was  natural 
for  him  in  such  an  unexpected  situation.  He  did 
nothing.  He  stood  quite  still  and  gazed  at  the  note 
as  it  lay  there  startlingly  white  against  the  black  tiles 
of  the  floor.  The  eyes  of  everyone  in  the  room  ap- 
peared to  be  directed  towards  it.  The  features  of  the 
startled  lady  assumed  an  expression  of  horrified 
amazement.  Two  waitresses  leaned  over  the  counter 
in  undisguised  excitement ;  another  stopped  dead  with 
a  tray  in  her  hand  to  survey  the  incriminating  docu- 
ment. The  fat  gentleman  against  whom  Roland  had 
collided  began  to  make  some  unpleasantly  loud  re- 
marks to  his  companion.  An  old  woman  leaned  for- 
ward and  asked  the  room  in  general  what  was  hap- 
pening. From  a  far  corner  came  the  horrible  suppres- 
sion of  a  giggle. 

The  lady  herself,  who  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  per- 
fectly respectable,  though  she  liked  to  be  thought 
otherwise,  and  had  dropped  her  bag  accidentally,  was 
the  first  to  recover  her  composure.  She  fixed  on 
Roland  a  glance  of  which  as  a  combination  of  hatred 
and  contempt  he  had  never  seen  the  equal,  turned 
quickly  and  walked  out  of  the  restaurant.  The  sud- 
den bang  of  the  door  behind  her  broke  the  tension. 
The  various  spectators  of  this  entertaining  interlude 
returned  to  their  ices  and  their  chocolate,  the  wait- 
resses resumed  their  duties,  the  patron  of  the  estab- 
lishment fussed  up  the  center  of  the  room,  and  Gerald, 


160  ROLAND  WHATELY 

who  had  watched  the  scene  with  intense  if  slightly 
nervous  amusement,  left  his  table,  picked  up  the  note, 
and  taking  Roland  by  the  arm,  led  him  out  of  the 
public  notice,  and  listened  to  his  friend's  solemn  vow 
that  never  again,  under  any  circumstances,  would  he 
be  induced  to  open  negotiations  with  any  woman,  be 
she  never  so  lovely,  who  did  not  by  her  dress,  her 
manner  and  the  places  she  frequented  proclaim  un- 
questionably her  profession. 

It  was  hardly  surprising  that  as  a  result  of  these 
adventures  a  more  developed,  more  independent 
Roland  returned  at  the  end  of  his  six  months'  tour, 
a  Roland,  moreover,  with  a  different  attitude  to  him- 
self, his  future,  his  surroundings,  who  was  prepared 
to  despise  the  chrysalis  from  which  he  had  emerged. 
His  school-days  appeared  trivial. 

"What  a  deal  of  fuss  we  made  about  things  that 
didn't  really  matter  at  all,"  he  said  to  Gerald  as  they 
leaned  over  the  taffrail  and  watched  the  dim  line  that 
was  England  grow  distinct,  its  gray  slowly  whitening 
as  they  drew  near.  "What  a  fuss  about  one's  place 
in  form,  one's  position  in  the  house;  whether  one 
ragged  or  whether  one  didn't  rag.  I  can  see  all  those 
masters,  with  their  solemn  faces,  thinking  I  had  per- 
jured my  immortal  soul  because  I  had  walked  out 
with  a  girl.  They  really  thought  it  mattered." 

How  puny  it  became  in  comparison  with  this  mag- 
nificent gamble  of  finance!  What  were  marks  in  an 
exam,  to  set  against  a  turnover  of  several  thousands? 
Duty,  privilege,  responsibility:  what  had  they  been 
but  the  brightly  colored  bricks  with  which  children 
play  in  the  nursery;  and  as  for  the  fret  and  fever 
concerning  their  arrangement,  where  could  be  found 
an  equivalent  for  the  serious  absorption  of  a  child? 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  VARNISH  161 

In  the  same  way  he  thought  of  his  home  and  the 
environment  of  his  boyhood.  What  a  gray  world  it 
had  been !  How  monotonous,  how  arid !  He  remem- 
bered sitting  as  a  child  at  the  bars  of  his  nursery 
window  watching  the  stream  of  business  men  hurry- 
ing to  their  offices  in  the  morning,  their  newspapers 
tucked  under  their  arms.  They  had  seemed  to  him 
like  marionettes.  The  front  door  had  opened.  Hus- 
band and  wife  had  exchanged  a  brusque  embrace; 
the  male  marionette  had  trotted  down  the  steps,  had 
paused  at  the  gate  to  wave  his  hand,  and  as  he  had 
turned  into  the  street  the  front  door  had  closed  be- 
hind him.  Always  the  same  thing  every  day.  And 
then  in  the  evening  the  same  stream  of  tired  listless 
men  hurrying  home,  their  bulky  morning  paper  ex- 
changed for  the  slim  evening  newssheet.  They  would 
trot  up  the  white  stone  steps,  the  front  door  would 
swing  open,  again  in  the  porch  the  marionettes  would 
kiss.  It  had  amused  him  as  a  child,  this  dumb  show, 
but  as  a  boy  he  had  come  to  hate  it — and  to  fear  it 
also.  For  he  knew  that  this  was  the  life  that  awaited 
him  if  he  failed  to  turn  to  account  his  superior  oppor- 
tunities. 

The  fear  of  degenerating  into  a  suburban  business 
man  had  been  always  the  strongest  goad  to  his 
ambition.  But  now  he  could  look  that  fear  con- 
fidently in  the  face.  He  had  won  through  out  of  that 
world  of  routine  and  friction  and  small  economies  into 
one  of  enterprise  and  daring  and  romance. 

And  April:  he  had  not  thought  very  much  about 
her  during  his  six  months'  absence;  she  belonged  to 
the  world  he  had  outgrown,  a  landmark  on  his  road 
of  adventure.  And  it  was  disconcerting  to  find  on  his 
return  that  she  did  not  regard  their  relationship  in 
this  light.  Roland  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  fleet- 


162  ROLAND  WHATELY 

ing  relationships  of  school  that  at  the  start  of  a  new 
term  could  be  resumed  or  dropped  at  will.  He  had 
not  realized  that  it  would  be  different  now;  that  six 
months  in  Belgium  were  not  the  equivalent  of  a  seven 
weeks'  summer  holiday;  that  he  would  be  returning 
to  an  unaltered  society  in  which  he  would  be  expected 
to  fulfill  the  obligations  incurred  by  him  before  his 
departure.  It  was  the  reversal  of  the  Rip  Van  Winkle 
legend.  Roland  had  altered  and  was  returning  to  a 
world  that  was  precisely  as  he  had  left  it. 

Nothing  had  changed. 

On  the  first  evening  he  went  round  to  visit  April, 
and  there  was  Mrs.  Curtis  as  she  had  always  been, 
sitting  before  the  fire,  her  hands  crossed  over  her  bony 
bosom.  She  welcomed  him  as  though  he  had  been 
spending  a  week-end  in  Kent. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Roland,  and  have  you  had 
a  nice  time?  It  must  be  pleasant  for  you  to  think  of 
how  soon  the  cricket  season  will  be  starting.  I  was 
saying  to  our  little  April  only  yesterday:  'How  Ro- 
land will  be  looking  forward  to  it.'  What  club  are  you 
thinking  of  joining?" 

"The  Marstons  said  something  to  me  about  my 
joining  their  local  club." 

"But  how  jolly  that  would  be!  You'll  like  that, 
won't  you?" 

Her  voice  rose  and  fell  as  it  had  risen  and  fallen  as 
long  as  Roland's  memory  had  knowledge  of  her.  The 
same  clock  ticked  over  the  same  mantelpiece;  above 
the  table  was  the  same  picture  of  a  cow  grazing  beside 
a  stream;  the  curtains,  once  red,  had  not  faded  to  a 
deeper  brown;  the  carpet  was  no  more  threadbare; 
the  same  books  lined  the  shelves  that  rose  on  either 
side  of  the  fire-place;  in  the  bracket  beside  the  win- 
dow was  the  calf-bound  set  of  William  Morris  that 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  VARNISH  163 

had  been  presented  to  April  as  a  prize;  on  the  rose- 
wood table  lay  yesterday's  copy  of  The  Times.  Mrs. 
Curtis  and  her  setting  were  eternal  in  the  scheme  of 
things. 

April,  too,  was  as  he  had  left  her.  Indeed,  her  life 
in  his  absence  had  been  a  pause.  She  had  no  per- 
sonal existence  outside  Roland.  She  had  waited  for 
his  return,  thinking  happily  of  the  future.  She  had 
gone  to  school  every  morning  at  a  quarter  to  nine  and 
had  returned  every  evening  at  half -past  five.  During 
the  Christmas  holidays  she  had  read  Nicholas  Nick- 
leby  and  Vanity  Fair.  She  was  now  halfway  through 
Little  Dorrit.  At  the  end  of  the  Michaelmas  term 
she  had  gained  a  promotion  into  a  higher  form  and 
in  her  new  form  she  had  acquitted  herself  creditably, 
finishing  halfway  up  the  class.  At  home  she  had 
performed  cheerfully  the  various  duties  that  had  been 
allotted  to  her.  But  she  had  regarded  those  six 
months  as  an  interlude  in  her  real  life;  that  was 
Roland's  now.  Happiness  could  only  come  to  her 
through  him;  and,  being  sure  of  happiness,  she  was 
not  fretful  nor  impatient  during  the  delay.  She  did 
not  expect  nor  indeed  ask  of  life  violent  transports 
either  of  ecstasy  or  sorrow.  Her  ideas  of  romance 
were  domestic  enough.  To  love  and  to  be  loved  faith- 
fully, to  have  children,  to  keep  a  home  happy,  a  home 
to  which  her  friends  would  be  glad  to  come — this 
seemed  to  her  as  much  as  any  woman  had  the  right  to 
need.  She  felt  that  she  would  be  able  to  make  Roland 
happy.  The  prospect  was  full  of  a  quiet  but  deep 
contentment. 

Roland  had  no  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  on 
that  first  evening;  Mrs.  Curtis,  as  usual,  monopolized 
the  conversation.  But  he  sat  near  to  April.  From 
time  to  time  their  eyes  met  and  she  smiled  at  him. 


164  ROLAND  WHATELY 

And  the  next  morning  when  he  came  round  to  see  her 
she  ran  eagerly  to  meet  him. 

"It's  lovely  to  have  you  back  again,"  she  said ;  "you 
can't  think  how  I've  been  looking  forward  to  it!" 

Roland  was  embarrassed  by  her  eagerness.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  say  and  stood  beside  her,  smiling 
stupidly. 

She  pouted. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me?"  she  said.  And  a 
moment  later:  "I  shouldn't  have  thought,  after  six 
months,  you'd  have  needed  asking!" 

Roland  met  her  reproach  with  a  stammered 
apology. 

"I  felt  shy.  I  thought  you  might  have  got  tired  of 
me,  all  that  long  time." 

"Oh,  but  Roland,  how  horrid  of  you!"  And  she 
moved  away  from  him.  But  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  made  love  prettily  to  her  and  consoled  her. 

"I  daresay,"  she  said,  "I  daresay.  But  you  didn't 
write  to  me  so  very  often." 

"I  wanted  to,  but  I  thought  your  mother  wouldn't 
like  it." 

"Oh,  but,  Roland,  that's  no  excuse;  she  expected 
you  to.  There's  an  understanding."  Then  with  a 
quiet  smile :  "Do  you  remember  the  row  we  had  about 
that  understanding?" 

"I  was  a  beast." 

"No,  you  weren't ;  I  was  a  silly." 

"I  was  miserable  about  it." 

"So  was  I.  I  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  myself. 
I  thought  you'd  never  speak  to  me  again,  that  you'd 
gone  off  in  a  huff,  like  the  heroes  in  the  story  books." 

"But  the  heroes  always  come  back  in  the  story 
books." 

"I  know,  and  that's  just  why  I  thought  that  very 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  VARNISH  165 

likely  you  wouldn't  in  real  life.  I  was  so  unhappy  I 
cried  myself  to  sleep." 

"We  were  sillies,  weren't  we?" 

"But  it  was  worth  it,"  said  April. 

"Worth  it?" 

"Don't  you  remember  how  nice  you  were  to  me 
when  we  made  it  up?" 

They  laughed  and  kissed,  and  the  minutes  passed 
pleasantly.  But  yet  their  love-making  fell  short  of 
Roland's  ideal  of  love.  It  was  jolly;  it  was  comfort- 
able; but  it  was  little  more.  He  was  not  thrilled 
when  the  back  of  his  hand  brushed  accidentally 
against  hers ;  their  kisses  were  hardly  a  lyric  ecstasy. 
Even  when  he  held  her  in  his  arms  he  was  conscious  of 
himself,  outside  their  embrace,  watching  it,  saying 
to  himself:  "Those  two  are  having  a  good  tune  to- 
gether," and  being  outside  it  he  was  envious,  jealous 
of  a  happiness  he  did  not  share.  It  was  someone  else 
who  was  holding  April's  hand,  someone  else's  head 
that  bent  to  her  slim  shoulder.  It  was  an  exciting 
experience.  But  then  had  it  not  been  exciting  to 
walk  across  Hampstead  Heath  on  a  Sunday  evening 
and  observe  the  feverish  ardors  of  the  prostrate  lovers? 

He  despised  himself;  he  reminded  himself  that  he 
was  extraordinarily  lucky  to  have  a  girl  such  as  April 
in  love  with  him ;  he  was  unworthy  of  her.  Was  not 
Ralph  eating  out  his  heart  with  envy?  And  yet  he 
was  dissatisfied.  The  Curtises'  house  had  become  a 
prison  for  him;  a  soft,  warm  prison,  with  cushions 
and  shaded  lights  and  gentle  voices,  but  it  was  a  pri- 
son none  the  less.  He  was  still  able  to  leave  it  at 
will,  but  the  time  was  coming  when  that  freedom 
would  be  denied  him.  In  a  year  or  two  their  under- 
standing would  be  an  engagement;  the  engagement 
would  drift  to  marriage.  For  the  rest  of  his  life  he 


166  ROLAND  WHATELY 

would  be  enclosed  in  that  warm,  clammy  atmosphere. 
There  was  a  conspiracy  at  work  against  him.  His 
father  had  already  begun  to  speak  of  his  marriage  as 
an  accomplished  fact.  His  mother  was  chiefly  glad 
he  was  doing  well  in  business  because  success  there 
would  make  an  early  marriage  possible.  On  all  sides 
inducements  were  being  offered  him  to  marry — mar- 
riage with  its  corollary  to  settle  down.  Marry  and 
settle  down,  when  he  was  still  under  twenty! — before 
he  had  begun  to  live! 


CHAPTER  XII 

MARSTON   AND    MARSTON 

"TOURING  the  weeks  that  immediately  followed 
-*->'  his  return,  Roland  found  that  he  was,  on  the 
whole,  happiest  when  he  was  at  the  office.  He  had 
less  there  to  worry  him.  His  work  was  new  and  inter- 
esting. Mr.  Marston  had  decided  that  before  Roland 
went  on  his  tour  alone  he  should  acquire  a  general 
knowledge  of  the  organization  of  the  business.  And 
so  Roland  spent  a  couple  of  weeks  in  each  depart- 
ment, acquainting  himself  with  the  routine. 

"And  a  pretty  good  slack  it  will  be,"  Gerald  had 
said.  "It's  the  governor's  pet  plan.  He  made  me  do 
it.  But  you  won't  learn  anything  that's  going  to  be 
of  the  least  use  to  you.  All  you've  got  to  do  in  this 
show  is  to  be  polite  and  impress  opulent  foreigners. 
You  don't  need  to  know  the  ingredients  of  varnish 
nor  how  we  arrange  our  advertising  accounts.  And 
you  can  bet  that  the  fellows  themselves  won't  be  in 
any  hurry  to  teach  you.  The  less  we  know  about 
things  the  better  they're  pleased.  They  like  to  run 
their  own  show.  If  I  were  you  I  should  have  as  lazy 
a  time  as  possible." 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  Roland  would  have 
followed  this  advice.  He  had  learned  at  Fernhurst  to 
do  as  much  work  as  was  strictly  necessary,  but  no 
more.  He  had  prepared  his  lessons  carefully  for  his 
house  tutor  and  the  games'  master,  the  two  persons, 

167 


168  ROLAND  WHATELY 

that  is  to  say,  who  had  it  in  their  power  to  make  his 
existence  there  either  comfortable  or  the  reverse.  He 
had  also  worked  hard  for  the  few  masters,  such  as 
Carus  Evans,  who  disliked  him.  That  was  part  of 
his  armor.  When  Carus  Evans  had  said  to  him  for 
the  third  day  running,  "Now,  I  think  we'll  have  you, 
Whately,"  and  he  had  translated  the  passage  without 
a  slip,  he  felt  that  he  was  one  up  on  Carus  Evans. 
But  for  the  others,  the  majority  with  whom  he  was 
only  brought  into  casual  contact,  and  who  were  pleas- 
antly indifferent  to  those  who  caused  them  no  trouble, 
he  did  only  as  much  work  as  was  needful  to  keep  him 
from  the  detention  room.  Roland  had  rarely  been  in- 
convenienced by  uncomfortable  scruples  about  duty. 

At  any  other  time  he  would  have  spent  the  days 
of  apprenticeship  in  placid  idleness — discussion  of 
cricket  matches;  visits  to  the  window  and  subsequent 
speculation  on  the  prospects  of  fine  weather  over  the 
week-end;  glances  at  his  watch  to  see  how  soon  he 
could  slip  from  the  cool  of  the  counting  house  into  the 
hot  sunshine  that  was  beating  upon,  the  streets; 
pleasant  absorption  in  a  novel.  But  Roland  was  wor- 
ried by  the  family  situation;  he  was  finding  life  dull; 
he  was  prepared  to  abandon  himself  eagerly  to  any 
fresh  enthusiasm.  For  want  of  anything  better  to  do, 
without  premeditation,  with  no  thought  of  the  power 
that  this  knowledge  might  one  day  bring  him,  he  de- 
cided to  understand  the  business  of  Marston  & 
Marston. 

On  the  first  morning  he  was  handed  over  to  the 
care  of  Mr.  Stevens,  the  head  of  the  trade  depart- 
ment. Mr.  Stevens  was  a  faithful  servant  of  the 
firm,  and,  as  is  the  way  with  faithful  servants,  con- 
sidered himself  to  be  more  important  than  his  em- 
ployers. 


MARSTON  AND  MARSTON  169 

"They  may  sit  up  in  that  board  room  of  theirs,"  he 
would  say,  "and  they  may  pass  their  resolutions,  and 
they  may  decide  on  this  and  they  may  decide  on  that, 
but  where'd  they  be  without  their  figures,  I'd  like  to 
know.  And  who  gives  them  their  figures?" 

He  would  chuckle  and  scratch  his  bald  head,  and 
issue  a  fierce  series  of  orders  to  the  packers.  He  bore 
no  malice  against  his  directors;  he  was  not  jealous; 
he  knew  that  there  were  two  classes,  the  governing 
and  the  governed,  and  that  it  had  been  his  fate  to  be 
born  among  the  governed. 

"There  always  have  been  two  classes  and  there 
always  will  be  two  classes.  We  can't  all  be  bosses." 
It  was  a  law  of  nature.  And  he  considered  his  per- 
formances more  creditable  than  those  of  his  masters. 

"These  directors,"  he  would  say,  "they  were  born 
into  the  business.  They've  stayed  where  they  was 
put;  they  haven't  gone  up  and  they  haven't  gone 
down.  But  I — I  started  as  a  packer  and  I'm  now  head 
of  the  trade  department;  and  look  you  here,  Jones," 
he  would  suddenly  bellow  out,  "if  you  hammer  nails 
into  a  box  at  that  rate  you'll  not  only  not  be  head 
of  a  trade  department,  you'll  blooming  soon  cease 
to  be  a  packer!" 

It  was  natural  that  Mr.  Stevens  should,  from  his 
previous  experience  of  Gerald  and  certain  other  young 
gentlemen,  regard  Roland  as  an  agreeable  trifler  on 
the  fringe  of  important  matters. 

"Well,  well,  sir,  so  you've  come  along  to  see  how 
we  do  things  down  here.  I  expect  we  shall  be  able 
to  show  you  a  thing  or  two.  Now,  if  you  was  to  go 
and  sit  over  in  that  corner  you'd  be  out  of  the  way 
and  you'd  be  able  to  see  the  business  going  on." 

"I  daresay,  Mr.  Stevens,  but  that  won't  help  me 
very  far,  will  it?" 


170  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,  sir;  nothing  like  seeing  how 
the  machinery  works." 

"But  I  might  as  well  go  and  ask  an  engine  driver 
how  a  train  worked  and  then  be  told  to  sit  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  platform  at  a  railway  station  and  watch  the 
trains  go  by.  I  should  see  how  they  worked  but  I 
shouldn't  know  much  about  them." 

Mr.  Stevens  chuckled  and  scratched  the  bald  patch 
on  his  head  appreciatively. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Stevens,"  Roland  continued,  "I  don't 
know  anything  about  this  show  at  all  and  I  know  that 
you're  the  only  person  in  the  place  who  can  help  me." 

It  was  a  lucky  shot.  Roland  was  not  then  the  psy- 
chologist that  he  was  to  become  in  the  days  of  his 
power.  He  worked  by  intuition.  What  he  had  in- 
tended for  a  graceful  compliment  was  a  direct  appeal 
to  Mr.  Stevens'  vanity,  at  the  point  where  it  was  most 
susceptible  to  such  an  assault.  It  was  a  grief  at  times 
to  Mr.  Stevens  that  the  authorities  should  regard  him 
as  little  more  than  a  useful  servant,  who  carried  out 
efficiently  the  orders  that  they  gave  him.  Mr.  Stevens 
was  not  ambitious;  the  firm  had  treated  him  fairly, 
had  recognized  his  talents  early  and  had  promoted 
him.  He  had  no  quarrel  with  the  firm,  but  he  knew 
—what  no  one  else  in  the  building,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  Perkins,  the  general  manager,  did  know — 
that  for  a  long  time  he  had  ceased  to  carry  out  to 
the  letter  the  instructions  that  had  been  given  him, 
and  that  Mr.  Marston  had  only  a  general  knowledge 
of  a  department  that  he  himself  knew  intimately.  He 
had  arranged  numerous  small  improvements  of  which 
Mr.  Marston  was  ignorant,  and  had  exploited  highly 
profitable  exchanges  of  material  with  other  dealers. 
Mr.  Marston  may  have  perhaps  noticed  in  the  general 
accounts  a  gradual  fall  in  packing  expenses,  but  if 


MARSTON  AND  MARSTON  171 

he  had  he  had  attributed  it,  without  much  thought, 
to  the  increased  facilities  for  obtaining  wood  and  card- 
board. He  did  not  know  that  as  the  result  of  most 
delicate  maneuvering  and  an  intricate  system  of  ex- 
change conducted  by  Mr.  Stevens  his  firm  was  being 
supplied  with  cardboard  at  the  actual  cost  price. 

Mr.  Stevens  did  not  tell  him.  He  enjoyed  his  little 
secret.  Every  year  he  would  consult  the  figures, 
scratch  his  bald  head  and  chuckle.  What  a  lot  he  had 
saved  the  firm!  He  looked  forward  to  the  day  when 
he  should  tell  Mr.  Marston.  How  surprised  they 
would  all  be !  They  had  never  suspected  that  funny 
old  Stevens  was  such  a  good  business  man.  In  the 
evening  hours  of  reverie  and  after  lunch  on  Sunday 
he  would  endow  the  scene  with  that  dramatic  intens- 
ity that  he  had  looked  for  but  had  not  yet  found  in 
life.  There  were  other  moments,  however,  when  he 
longed  for  appreciation.  He  wished  that  someone 
would  realize  his  importance  without  having  to  have 
it  explained  to  him.  So  that  when  Roland  said  to 
him,  "You're  the  only  person  in  the  place  who  can 
help  me,"  he  was  startled  into  the  indulgence  of  his 
one  weakness. 

"Well,  well,  sir,"  he  said,  and  his  face  flushed  with 
pleasure,  "I  daresay  if  you  put  it  like  that" ;  and  tak- 
ing Roland  by  the  arm  he  led  him  away  into  his  study 
and  began  to  explain  his  accounts,  his  invoices,  his 
receipts  and  his  method  of  checking  them.  And  be- 
cause he  had  found  an  appreciative  audience  he  pro- 
ceeded to  reveal  one  by  one  his  little  secrets.  "Mr. 
Marston  doesn't  know  I  do  this,  and  don't  tell  him; 
I'm  keeping  it  as  a  surprise;  but  you  can  see  that  by 
letting  the  wood  merchants  have  that  extra  percent- 
age there,  I  can  get  tin-foil  cheap  enough  to  be  able 
to  pack  our  stuff  at  two  per  cent,  less  than  it  would 


172  ROLAND  WHATELY 

cost  ordinarily.  Think  what  I  must  have  saved  the 
firm!" 

There  could  be  no  question  of  his  value ;  but  what 
Roland  did  not  then  appreciate — what,  for  that  mat- 
ter, Mr.  Stevens  himself  did  not  appreciate — was  the 
value  of  this  work  in  relation  to  the  general  business 
of  the  firm.  Mr.  Stevens  was  a  specialist.  He  under- 
stood his  own  department  but  he  understood  nothing 
else.  He  did  not  realize  that  on  the  delicate  balance 
of  that  two  per  cent,  it  had  been  possible  to  undersell 
a  dangerous  rival. 

The  same  conditions,  Roland  discovered,  existed  in 
several  other  departments.  Each  head  worked  inde- 
pendently of  the  other  heads.  Mr.  Marston,  sitting 
at  his  desk,  coordinated  their  work.  A  one-man  busi- 
ness: that  was  Mr.  Marston's  program.  One  brain 
must  control,  otherwise  there  would  be  chaos.  One 
department  would  find  itself  working  against  another 
department.  He  believed  in  departments  because 
they  stood  for  the  delegation  of  routine  work,  but  they 
must  be  subordinate  departments.  There  were  mo- 
ments, however,  when  Roland  wondered  whether  Mr. 
Marston's  hold  on  the  business  had  not  relaxed  with 
the  years.  A  great  deal  was  going  on  of  which  he 
was  ignorant.  He  had  started  the  machinery  and  the 
machinery  still  ran  smoothly,  but  was  the  guiding 
hand  ready  to  deal  with  stoppages?  Roland  won- 
dered. How  much  did  Mr.  Marston  really  know? 
Had  he  kept  up  with  modern  ideas,  or  was  he  still 
living  with  the  ideas  that  were  current  in  his  youth? 
But  more  than  this  even,  Roland  wondered  how  much 
Perkins  knew. 

He  did  not  like  Perkins.  "A  good  man,"  Mr. 
Marston  had  called  him,  "as  good  a  general  manager 
as  you're  likely  to  find  anywhere.  Not  a  social 


MARSTON  AND  MARSTON  173 

beauty;  silent,  and  all  that,  but  a  good  strong  man. 
You  can  trust  him." 

Roland  did  not  agree  with  this  estimate.  First 
impressions  are  very  often  right;  he  was  inclined  to 
trust  his  intuition  before  his  reason,  and  his  first  im- 
pression of  Perkins  was  of  an  embittered,  jealous  man. 
"He  hates  me,"  Roland  thought,  "because  I'm  step- 
ping straight  into  this  business  through  influence, 
with  every  prospect  of  becoming  a  director  before  I've 
finished;  while  he's  sweated  all  his  life,  and  worked 
from  nothing  to  a  position  that  for  all  his  ability  will 
never  carry  him  to  the  board  room."  He  was  a  man 
to  watch.  The  people  who  have  been  mishandled  by 
fortune  show  no  mercy  when  they  get  the  chance  of 
revenge. 

Perkins  was  scrupulously  polite,  but  Roland  felt 
how  much  he  resented  his  intrusion,  and  Gerald  was 
inclined  to  endorse  this  opinion. 

"Oh,  yes,  a  sour-faced  ass,"  he  said;  "father  thinks 
a  lot  of  him,  though.  It's  as  well  to  keep  on  the  right 
side  of  him.  He  can  make  things  rather  awkward  if 
you  don't.  He  keeps  an  eye  on  most  of  the  accounts, 
and  he  watches  the  travelers'  expenses  pretty  closely. 
If  he  gets  annoyed  with  you  he  might  start  question- 
ing your  extras." 

They  laughed,  remembering  how  they  had  entered 
under  the  heading  "special  expenses"  the  charges  for 
a  lurid  evening  at  a  certain  discreet  establishment  in 
the  Rue  des  Colombes. 

On  the  whole,  Roland  was  happy  at  the  office,  but 
the  evenings  were  distressing:  the  bus  ride  back;  the 
walk  up  the  hot  stuffy  street  towards  his  home;  the 
subsequent  walk  with  his  father ;  the  same  walk  every 
day  along  the  hard,  flag-stoned  roads,  during  which 
they  met  the  same  dispirited  men  hurrying  home  from 


174  ROLAND  WHATELY 

work.  London  was  horrible  in  June,  with  its  metallic 
heat,  its  dust,  and  the  dull  leaves  of  the  plane-trees 
scattering  their  mournful  shadows.  How  somber,  too, 
were  the  long  evenings  after  the  wretched  two-course 
dinner,  in  the  small  suburban  drawing-room — ill  lit, 
ill  ventilated,  meanly  furnished.  It  was  not  surpris- 
ing that  he  should  accept  eagerly  the  Marstons'  fre- 
quent invitations  to  spend  the  week-end  with  them 
in  the  country;  it  was  another  world,  a  cleaner, 
fresher  world,  where  you  were  met  at  the  station, 
where  you  drove  through  a  long,  winding  drive  to  an 
old  Georgian  house,  where  you  dressed  for  dinner, 
where  you  drank  crusted  port  as  you  cracked  your 
walnuts.  Yet  it  was  not  this  material  well-being  that 
he  so  highly  valued  as  the  setting  it  provided  for  a 
gracious  interchange  of  courtesy,  for  the  leisured  pre- 
liminaries of  friendship,  for  ornament  and  decoration. 

Was  anything  in  his  life  better  than  that  moment 
on  a  Friday  evening  when  from  the  corner  seat  of  a 
railway  carriage  he  watched  the  smoke  and  chimneys 
of  London  fall  behind  him,  when  through  the  window 
he  saw,  instead  of  streets  and  shops  and  houses,  green 
fields  and  hedges  and  small  scattered  villages,  and 
knew  that  for  forty-eight  hours  he  could  forget  the 
fretted  uneasiness  of  his  home. 

He  was  invited  during  August  to  spend  a  whole 
week  at  Hogstead.  Several  others  would  be  there, 
and  there  would  be  cricket  every  day. 

"We  can't  do  without  you,"  Mr.  Marston  had  said, 
"and  what's  more,  we  don't  intend  to." 

"Of  course,  we  don't,"  said  Muriel;  "you've  got  to 
come!" 

Naturally  Roland  did  not  need  much  pressing. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LILITH   OF   OLD 

ROLAND  made  during  this  week  the  acquaintance 
of  several  members  of  the  family  who  had  hith- 
erto been  only  names  to  him.  There  was  Gerald's 
uncle  Arnold,  a  long  mean-faced  man,  and  his  wife, 
Beatrice.  Afterwards,  when  he  looked  back  and  con- 
sidered how  large  a  part  she  had  played,  if  indirectly, 
in  his  life,  and  for  that  matter  in  the  lives  of  all  of 
them,  he  could  not  help  thinking  that  his  first  sight 
of  her  had  been  prophetic,  certainly  dramatic.  He 
had  just  arrived,  had  been  met  by  Muriel  and  Mr. 
Marston  and  his  brother  in  the  hall,  and  Muriel  had 
insisted  on  taking  him  away  at  once  to  see  her  rabbits. 
She  had  come  to  regard  him  as  her  special  friend. 
Gerald's  other  friends  were  too  stiff  and  grown  up; 
Roland  was  nearer  to  her  own  age  and  he  did  not 
patronize  her. 

"Come  along,"  she  said,  "you've  got  to  see  my  rab- 
bits before  dinner  time." 

"Will  they  have  grown  up  by  to-morrow?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  they  won't  be  any  younger,  will  they?  They 
are  such  dears,"  and  she  had  taken  his  hand,  pulling 
him  after  her.  They  ran  down  the  curving  path  that 
sloped  from  the  house  to  the  cricket  field.  "I  keep 
them  in  that  little  shed  behind  the  pavilion,"  she  said. 
They  were  certainly  delightful,  little  brown  and  white 
balls  of  fur,  with  stupid,  blinking  eyes.  Roland  and 

175 


176  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Muriel  took  them  out  of  the  cage  and  carried  them  on 
to  the  terrace  that  ran  round  the  field,  and  sat  there 
playing  with  them,  offering  them  grass  and  dande- 
lions. 

A  grass  path  ran  between  great  banks  of  rhododen- 
drons from  the  terrace  towards  the  garden,  and  at  the 
end  a  pergola  stretched  a  red  riot  of  roses  parallel  to 
the  field.  Suddenly  at  the  end  of  the  path,  at  the 
point  where  it  met  the  pergola,  Roland  saw,  framed 
in  an  arch  of  roses,  a  tall,  graceful  woman  walking 
slowly  on  Gerald's  arm,  her  head  bent  quietly  towards 
him.  At  that  distance  Roland  could  not  distinguish 
her  features,  but  the  small  oval  face  set  in  the  mass 
of  light  yellow  hair  was  delicate  and  the  firm  outlines 
of  her  body  suggested  that  she  had  only  recently  left 
her  girlhood  behind  her. 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Roland. 

"That!    Oh,  that's  Aunt  Beatrice." 

"But  who's  Aunt  Beatrice?" 

"Uncle  Arnold's  wife." 

"What!" 

Roland  could  hardly  believe  it :  so  young  a  woman 
married  to  that  shriveled,  prosaic  solicitor. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Muriel,  "they've  been  married  nearly 
three  years  now ;  and  they've  got  such  a  darling  little 
girl:  Rosemary;  you'll  see  her  to-morrow.  She's  got 
the  loveliest  hair.  It  crinkles  when  you  run  your 
fingers  through  it." 

"But — oh,  well,  I  suppose  it's  rather  cheek,  but  he's 
years  older." 

"Uncle  Arnold?"  replied  Muriel  cheerfully.  "Oh, 
yes,  I  think  he  must  be  nearly  fifty."  Then  after  a 
pause,  light-heartedly  as  though  the  possession  of  a 
family  skeleton  was  something  of  an  honor,  "I  don't 
think  they  like  each  other  much." 


LILITH  OF  OLD  177 

"How  do  you  know?"  Roland  asked. 

"They  are  always  quarreling.  I  never  saw  such  a 
couple  for  it.  If  there's  a  discussion  he's  only  got  to 
take  one  side  for  her  to  take  the  other." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  very  well  how  she  could  be  in 
love  with  him,  he's  such  a  ..."  Roland  paused, 
realizing  that  it  would  be  hardly  good  manners  to 
disparage  Muriel's  uncle.  But  she  did  not  intend  him 
to  leave  the  sentence  unfinished. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "such  a  ...  Go  on!" 

"But  I  didn't  mean  that." 

"Yes,  you  did." 

"No,  I  didn't ;  really  I  didn't.  I'm  sure  your  uncle's 
awfully  nice,  but  he's  so  much  older,  and  you  can't  be 
in  love  with  someone  so  much  older  than  yourself." 

"I  see;  you're  forgiven";  then  after  a  pause  and 
with  a  mischievous  smile:  "Have  you  ever  been  in 
love,  Roland?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  how  lovely!"  and  she  turned  quickly  and  sat 
facing  him,  her  knees  drawn  up,  her  hands  clasped  in 
front  of  them.  "Now  tell  me  all  about  it.  I've  al- 
ways wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  someone  who's 
really  been  in  love,  and  I  never  have." 

"What  about  Gerald?" 

She  pouted.  "Gerald !  Oh,  well,  but  he  laughs  at 

me,  and  besides But  come  on  and  tell  me  all 

about  it." 

She  made  a  pretty  picture  as  she  sat  there,  her  face 
alight  with  the  eagerness  of  curious  girlhood,  and 
Roland  felt  to  the  full  the  fascination  of  such  a  con- 
fessional. "It  was  a  long  time  ago,"  he  said,  "and 
it's  all  over  now." 

"Never  mind  that,"  Muriel  persisted.  "What  was 
her  name?" 


178  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Betty." 

"And  was  she  pretty?" 

"Of  course;  I  shouldn't  have  been  in  love  with 
her  if  she  hadn't  been." 

Muriel  tossed  back  her  head  and  laughed.  "Oh, 
but  how  absurd,  Roland !  Some  of  the  ugliest  women 
I've  ever  seen  have  managed  to  get  husbands." 

"And  some  pretty  hideous-looking  men  get  pretty 
wives." 

"But  I  suppose  the  pretty  wives  think  their  ugly 
husbands  are  all  right." 

"And  equally  I  suppose  the  handsome  husbands 
think  their  plain  wives  beautiful." 

They  laughed  together,  but  Muriel  raised  a  warn- 
ing finger.  "We  are  getting  off  the  point,"  she  said. 
"I  want  to  know  more  about  your  Betty.  Was  she 
dark?" 

"Darkish— yes." 

"And  her  eyes;  were  they  dark,  too?" 

"I  think  so;  they  were  bright." 

"What,  aren't  you  sure?  I  don't  think  much  of 
you  as  a  lover." 

"But  I  can  never  remember  the  color  of  people's 
eyes,"  he  pleaded.  "I  can't  remember  the  color  of 
my  mother's  or  my  aunt's,  or — 

"Quick,  shut  your  eyes;  what's  the  color  of  my 
eyes?" 

"Blue,"  Roland  hazarded. 

"Wrong.  They're  green.  Cat's  eyes.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  I  shall  write  and  tell  your 
Betty  about  it." 

"But  that's  all  over  long  ago,  I  told  you." 

"How  did  it  end?" 

"It  never  began,"  laughed  Roland :  "she  never  cared 
for  me  a  bit." 


LILITH  OF  OLD  179 

Muriel  pouted.  "How  unromantic,"  she  said ;  then 
added  with  the  quick,  mischievous  smile,  "and  how 
silly  of  her!" 

As  he  dressed  for  dinner  that  evening  Roland  won- 
dered what  perverse  impulse  had  made  him  speak  to 
Muriel  of  Betty  rather  than  of  Dolly;  of  either  of 
them  rather  than  of  April;  of  an  unsuccessful  love 
affair  that  was  over  rather  than  of  a  successful  one 
that  was  in  progress.  Muriel  would  far  rather  have 
heard  of  April  than  of  Betty.  How  she  would  have 
pestered  him  with  questions!  Where  had  they  met? 
When  had  he  first  known  he  was  in  love  with  her? 
What  had  he  said  to  her?  How  had  she  answered 
him?  It  would  have  been  great  fun  to  confide  in  her. 
He  had  been  foolish  not  to  tell  her.  She  was  such  a 
jolly  girl.  She  had  looked  charming  as  she  had  sat 
back  holding  her  knees,  with  her  clear  skin  and  slim 
boyish  figure,  and  her  brightly  tinted  lips  that  were 
always  a  little  parted  before  her  teeth,  beautifully 
even  teeth  they  were,  except  just  at  the  corner  of 
her  mouth  where  one  white  tooth  slightly  overlapped 
its  neighbor.  She  was  the  sort  of  girl  that  he  would 
like  to  have  had  for  a  sister.  He  had  always  regretted 
that  he  had  not  had  one,  and  between  Muriel  and 
himself  there  could  have  been  genuine,  open  com- 
radeship. She  would  have  been  a  delightful  com- 
panion. They  would  have  had  such  fun  going  about 
together  to  parties,  dances  and  the  Oval.  She  would 
have  received  so  charmingly  his  confidence. 

And  yet,  on  the  whole,  he  did  not  know  why,  he 
was  rather  glad  that  he  had  not  told  her  about  April. 

That  night  Roland  sat  next  Beatrice  at  dinner,  and 
was  thus  afforded  an  opportunity  of  confirming  or 
rejecting  his  first  impression  of  her.  She  was  only 
twenty  years  old,  but  she  looked  younger,  not  so  much 


180  ROLAND  WHATELY 

on  account  of  her  slim  figure  and  small,  delicate,  oval 
face  as  of  her  general  pose  and  the  girlish  untidiness 
that  made  you  think  that  she  had  not  taken  very 
long  over  her  toilet.  Her  light  yellow  hair  was  drawn 
back  carelessly  from  the  smooth  skin  of  her  neck  and 
forehead.  It  looked  as  though  it  had  been  crushed 
all  the  afternoon  under  a  tightly  fitting  hat,  and  that 
when  Beatrice  had  returned  from  her  walk,  probably 
a  little  late,  she  had  flung  the  hat  on  the  bed,  and 
deciding  that  she  could  not  be  bothered  to  take  down 
her  hair  and  put  it  up  again  had  been  content  to  draw 
her  comb  through  it  once  or  twice  with  hurried,  im- 
patient fingers.  This  negligence,  which  might  have 
been  charming  as  the  setting  for  mobile,  vivacious 
features,  was  out  of  keeping  with  the  tranquillity  of 
her  face,  her  quiet  gestures  and  lack  of  action.  She 
had  not  learned  how  to  dress  and  carry  herself,  and 
this  was  an  omission  you  would  hardly  expect  in  a 
woman  who  had  been  married  for  three  years. 

And  yet  she  was  beautiful,  or  perhaps  not  so  much 
beautiful  as  different.  She  suggested  tragedy,  mys- 
tery, romance.  What,  Roland  asked  himself,  lay  be- 
hind the  wavering  luster  of  her  eyes?  And,  looking 
at  the  meager,  uninspired  features  of  her  husband,  he 
wondered  how  she  could  have  ever  brought  herself 
to  marry  him.  He  was  a  very  good  fellow,  no  doubt, 
of  whom  one  might  grow  fond — but  love — to  be  held 
in  his  arms,  to  be  kissed  by  those  dry  lips !  He  shud- 
dered, revolted  by  this  dismal  mating  of  spring  and 
autumn. 

She  did  not  talk  very  much,  though  occasionally, 
when  her  husband  made  a  particularly  definite  state- 
ment, she  would  raise  her  head  and  say  rather  con- 
temptuously: "Oh,  Arnold!"  to  which  he  would  reply 
with  heavy  worded  argument:  "My  dear  girl,  what 


LILITH  OF  OLD  181 

you  don't  understand  is  .  .  ."  It  was  uncomfortable, 
and  Roland,  looking  round  the  table,  wondered 
whether  the  family  was  aware  of  it.  They  did  not 
appear  to  be.  At  one  end  of  the  table  Mr.  Marston 
was  discussing,  in  his  jovial,  full-blooded  manner,  the 
prospects  of  the  cricket  week,  and,  at  the  other,  Mrs. 
Marston  was  informing  a  member  of  the  Harrow  XI. 
that  their  opponents  of  the  morrow  had  recruited  a 
couple  of  blues  from  a  neighboring  village.  Gerald 
and  Muriel  were  both  laughing  and  chatting,  and  the 
other  members  of  the  party  seemed  equally  not  to 
notice  the  close  atmosphere  of  impending  conflict. 
Perhaps  they  had  grown  accustomed  to  it. 

Roland  listened  carefully  to  all  that  Arnold  Marston 
said,  both  during  dinner  and  afterwards  when  the 
ladies  had  gone  upstairs  and  the  port  had  been  passed 
for  the  second  time  round  the  table.  He  was  hard, 
dogmatic  and,  at  the  same  time,  petulant  in  his  talk. 
He  quickly  assumed  that  everyone  who  did  not  agree 
with  him  was  ignorant  and  a  fool.  As  he  talked  his 
fingers  performed  small  gestures  of  annoyance;  they 
plucked  at  the  table  cloth,  fingered  the  water  bowl, 
heaped  the  salt  into  small  pyramids  upon  his  plate. 
They  were  discussing  the  pull  shot,  then  something 
of  an  innovation,  and  Roland  maintained  that  it  was 
absurd  for  school  coaches  not  to  allow  boys  to  hit 
across  long  hops.  "Why,  do  you  know  that  at  Fern- 
hurst  you  are  expected  to  apologize  to  the  bowler  if 
you  make  a  pull  shot." 

"And  quite  right,  too,"  said  Mr.  Arnold. 

"But,  why?"  Roland  answered  him.  "The  pull's 
perfectly  safe;  it's  a  four  every  time  and  you  can't 
get  more  than  a  single  if  you  play  back  to  it  with  a 
straight  bat." 

"I  daresay,  I  daresay,  but  cricket's  cricket,  and  you 


182  ROLAND  WHATELY 

have  got  to  play  it  with  a  straight  bat.  You've  got 
to  play  according  to  rules." 

"But  there's  no  rule  that  says  you  mayn't  hit  a  long 
hop  with  a  crooked  bat." 

Mr.  Arnold  fidgeted  angrily. 

"My  dear  boy,  it's  no  good  arguing.  I've  been 
playing  cricket  and  watching  cricket  for  forty  years, 
and  the  good  batsmen  always  played  a  straight  bah1 
with  a  straight  bat." 

"There  are  a  good  many  who  don't." 

"That  means  nothing.  A  big  man's  a  rule  to  him- 
self. The  pull's  a  dangerous  stroke;  it's  all  right  in 
village  cricket  perhaps,  but  no  one  who  doesn't  play 
with  a  straight  bat  would  get  into  a  county  side." 

"But  isn't  it  the  object  of  the  game  to  make  runs?" 

"Not  altogether — even  if  you  do  get  four  runs  from 
it  instead  of  one,  which  I  am  prepared  to  doubt.  We 
wear  our  clothes  to  keep  our  bodies  warm,  but  you 
wouldn't  be  pleased  if  your  tailor  made  your  coat 
button  up  to  the  throat,  and  said:  'It  covers  more  of 
you,  sir;  you'll  be  warmer  that  way,  and  the  object 
of  clothes  is  to  keep  you  warm.' ' 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  Roland's  expense, 
and  before  it  had  subsided  Mr.  Marston  had  intro- 
duced another  subject.  Roland  was  annoyed ;  he  had 
a  distaste  for  anything  that  savored  of  cleverness. 
He  regarded  it  as  an  unfair  weapon  in  an  argument. 
An  argument  should  be  a  weighing  of  facts.  Each 
side  should  produce  its  facts,  and  an  impartial  wit- 
ness should  give  judgment.  It  was  not  fair  to  ob- 
scure the  issue  with  an  untrue,  if  amusing,  simile. 
And  once  the  laugh  is  against  you  it  is  no  good  con- 
tinuing an  argument.  Arnold  Marston  had  learned 
this  on  his  election  platform.  He  had  once  been  asked 
what  his  party  proposed  to  do  for  the  unemployed ; 


LILITH  OF  OLD  183 

it  was  an  awkward  question,  that  gave  many  oppor- 
tunities for  adverse  heckling.  But  he  had  obscured 
the  issue  with  a  laugh:  "When  my  party  gets  in 
there  will  be  no  unemployment."  And  the  meeting 
had  gone  home  with  the  opinion  that  he  was  a  jolly 
fellow — not  too  serious — the  sort  of  man  that  any- 
one could  understand.  It  was  a  good  trick  on  the 
platform,  but  it  was  very  annoying  at  the  dinner 
table,  at  least  so  the  discomfited  found.  And  Roland 
felt  even  more  aggrieved  as  they  were  leaving  the 
room  and  the  silly  ass  in  the  Harrow  XI.  slapped  him 
on  the  back  and  informed  him  that,  "The  old  man 
got  in  a  good  one  on  you  there."  He  could  under- 
stand Beatrice  hating  him. 

He  did  not  have  another  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  her  that  evening,  but  as  he  sat  in  the  big  drawing- 
room  among  the  members  of  the  house  party  his  at- 
tention drifted  continually  from  the  agreeable,  super- 
ficial conversation  that  had  been  up  to  now  so  sym- 
pathetic to  him.  These  trivial  discussions  of  cricket, 
their  friends,  their  careers,  and,  in  a  desultory  man- 
ner, of  life  itself,  had  been  invaded  by  a  stern,  criti- 
cal silence.  His  eyes  kept  turning  towards  Beatrice  as 
she  sat  in  a  deep  arm-chair,  her  hands  folded  quietly 
in  her  lap ;  they  followed  her  when  she  walked  to  the 
window  and  stood  there,  her  arm  raised  above  her 
head,  looking  into  the  garden.  He  would  have  liked 
to  go  across  the  room  and  speak  to  her;  but  what 
would  he  have  been  able  to  say?  He  could  not  tell 
what  thoughts  were  passing  beneath  the  unruffled 
surface;  was  she  fretting  impatiently  at  the  tedious 
cricket  shop?  Was  she  criticizing  them  all? — she, 
who  had  seen  deeper  and  farther  and  come  nearer 
to  tragedy  than  any  of  them — or  was  she  what  she  ap- 
peared— a  young  woman  moved  by  the  poetry  of  a 


184  ROLAND  WHATELY 

garden  stilled  by  moonshine?  When  she  turned  away 
he  thought  that  he  detected  a  movement  of  her 
shoulders,  a  gesture  prompted  by  some  wandering 
thought  or  gust  of  feeling,  that  would  have  been  sig- 
nificant to  one  who  knew  her,  but  for  him  was  mean- 
ingless. And  that  night  he  lay  awake  for  nearly  an 
hour,  a  long  time  for  one  who  thought  little  and  to 
whom  sleep  came  easily,  remembering  her  words  and 
actions,  the  intonation  of  her  voice,  and  that  move- 
ment by  the  window.  As  he  began  to  lose  control 
over  thoughts  she  became  transfigured,  the  counter- 
part of  those  princesses,  shut  away  in  high-walled 
castles,  of  whom  he  had  dreamed  in  childhood;  her 
husband  became  an  ogre,  leering  and  vindictive,  who 
laughed  at  him  from  the  turrets  of  impregnable  bat- 
tlements. 

Breakfast  at  Hogstead  was  a  haphazard  business. 
It  began  at  eight  and  ended  at  ten.  No  one  presided 
over  it.  There  were  cold  things  on  the  sideboard  to 
which  you  helped  yourself.  As  soon  as  you  came 
down  you  rang  the  bell  and  a  maid  appeared  to  ask 
you  whether  you  would  prefer  tea  or  coffee  and 
whether  you  would  take  porridge.  You  then  sat  down 
where  you  liked  at  the  long,  wide  table. 

When  Roland  came  down  the  next  morning  at 
about  a  quarter  to  nine  he  found  the  big  rush  on; 
from  half-past  eight  to  half-past  nine  there  were 
usually  six  or  seven  people  at  the  table.  Before 
that  time  there  was  only  Mrs.  Marston  and  anyone 
who  had  been  energetic  enough  to  take  a  dip  in  a 
very  cold  pond  that  was  protected  from  sunshine  by 
the  northern  terrace  of  the  cricket  field.  By  a  quarter 
to  ten  there  was  usually  only  a  long  table,  covered 
with  dirty  plates,  to  keep  company  with  Mr.  Marston, 
who,  strangely  enough,  was  a  late  riser.  There  were 


LILITH  OF  OLD  185 

eight  people  in  all  having  breakfast  when  Roland 
arrived,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  there  were  seven,  for 
Gerald  had  finished  his  some  time  before,  but  as  he 
had  had  a  bathe  he  preferred  to  remain  at  the  table 
and  inform  everyone  of  his  courage  as  they  came 
down. 

"I  can't  think  why  everyone  doesn't  bathe  in  the 
morning,"  he  was  saying;  "makes  one  feel  splendidly 
fit.  I'm  absolutely  glowing  all  over." 

"So  you've  told  us  before,"  said  Muriel. 

"I've  told  you,  but  I  haven't  told  Roland.  Roland, 
why  didn't  you  come  and  have  a  bathe  this  morning, 
you  old  slacker?  Do  you  no  end  of  good." 

"Puts  one's  eye  out,"  said  Roland,  repeating  the 
old  Fernhurst  theory  that  cricket  and  swimming  are 
incompatible. 

"Rot,  my  dear  chap;  nothing  like  a  bathe,  nothing 
like  it.  I  bet  you  I  shall  skittle  them  out  this  after- 
noon, and  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  make  a  few 
runs  either." 

Roland  had  by  this  time  satisfied  the  maid's  curi- 
osity as  to  his  beverage  and  had  helped  himself  to 
a  plate  of  tongue  and  ham.  He  turned  round  with 
the  plate  in  his  hand  and  looked  to  see  where  he 
should  sit.  There  was  a  vacant  place  beside  Gerald  to 
which  he  would  have  been  expected  to  direct  himself; 
there  was  also  a  vacant  place  beside  Beatrice:  he 
chose  the  latter,  and  hardly  realized  till  he  had  drawn 
back  the  chair  that  Gerald  was  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  table. 

Several  thoughts  passed  with  incredible  swiftness 
through  his  brain.  Had  anyone  noticed  what  he  had 
done?  Would  they  think  it  curious?  More  impor- 
tant still,  would  Beatrice  resent  it?  From  this  last 
anxiety  he  was  soon  freed,  for  Beatrice,  without  ap- 


186  ROLAND  WHATELY 

parently  having  observed  his  presence,  rose  from  the 
table  and  went  into  the  garden.  He  was  left  with 
an  empty  chair  on  either  side  of  him  and  no  one  for 
him  to  talk  to;  Gerald  and  Muriel  were  beyond  the 
reach  of  anything  less  than  a  shout. 

He  finished  his  breakfast  hurriedly  in  an  enforced 
silence  and  walked  out  into  the  garden  in  the  secret 
hope  of  finding  Beatrice.  In  this  he  soon  succeeded. 
She  was  playing  croquet  with  her  daughter  on  the 
lawn.  Roland  stood  watching  them  for  a  moment 
and  then  walked  slowly  across  the  lawn.  Beatrice 
glanced  up  at  him  and  then  went  on  with  her  game. 
She  did  not  even  smile  at  him.  It  would  have  been 
too  much  perhaps  to  have  expected  her  to  ask  him 
to  join  them,  but  she  might  surely  have  made  some 
sign  of  comradely  recognition.  After  all,  he  had  the 
night  before  taken  her  down  to  dinner;  he  had  en- 
deavored to  be  as  nice  as  he  could  to  her,  and  it 
annoyed  him  and,  at  the  same  time,  attracted  him 
to  feel  that  he  had  made  absolutely  no  impression 
on  her. 

Roland  was  not  one  of  those  who  analyze  their 
emotions.  When  he  was  attracted  by  some  new  inter- 
est he  did  not  put  himself  in  the  confessional,  and  he 
did  not  now  ask  himself  why  or  how  Beatrice  had 
appealed  to  him. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  did  not  attract  him  physi- 
cally. Her  beauty  added  to  the  glamor  that  enriched 
her  loneliness,  but  did  not  touch  him  otherwise.  It 
was  interest  he  felt  for  her,  a  compelling  interest  for 
someone  outside  the  circle  of  his  own  experience,  who 
was  content  to  disparage  what  he  admired  and  had 
filled  her  own  life  with  other  enthusiasms.  She  was 
remote,  inscrutable.  She  lived  and  ate  and  talked 
and  moved  among  them,  but  she  had  no  part  there. 


LILITH  OF  OLD  1ST 

And  because  he  was  so  interested  in  her  he  was  des- 
perately anxious  that  she  should  feel  some  interest  in 
him.  She  was  a  mystery  for  him,  but  he  was  not 
content  she  should  remain  a  mystery;  he  wanted  to 
understand  her,  to  become  friends,  so  that  in  her 
troubles  she  should  turn  to  him  for  sympathy  and 
guidance.  How  wonderful  that  would  be,  that  this 
aloof  and  beautiful  woman  should  share  with  him  an 
intimacy  that  she  denied  her  husband.  He  would 
watch  her  as  he  had  watched  her  the  previous  eve- 
ning moving  among  her  friends,  indifferent  and  apart 
from  them,  and  they  would  sit,  as  they  had  sat,  hardly 
noticing  her,  talking  of  their  own  affairs,  perhaps 
casting  towards  her  a  glance  of  casual  speculation: 
"What  is  she  really?"  they  would  say,  and  then  put 
her  from  their  mind  and  return  to  their  bridge  and 
their  billiards  and  their  cricket  shop.  But  he  would 
know,  and  as  she  turned  from  the  window  he  would 
appreciate  the  significance  of  that  little  movement, 
that  hesitation  almost  of  the  shoulders,  and  she  would 
turn  her  eyes  to  him,  those  sad,  disdainful,  dove- 
colored  eyes  of  hers,  that  invited  nothing  and  offered 
nothing,  but  would  become  for  him  flooded  with  sym- 
pathy and  gentle  friendship;  there  would  be  no  need 
for  words — just  that  meeting  of  the  eyes  across  a 
crowded  drawing-room. 

Immersed  in  reverie,  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
long  grass  path  that  ran  from  the  cricket  field  to  the 
rose  garden,  and  when  his  name  was  shouted  sud- 
denly, shrilly  and  from  very  close,  he  approximated  to 
that  condition  of  dismay  that  the  vernacular  describes 
as  "jumping  out  of  one's  skin."  He  turned,  to  see 
Muriel  standing  two  yards  behind  him,  her  hands 
upon  her  hips,  shaking  with  laughter. 

"I  have  been  watching  you  for  ten  minutes,"  she 


188  ROLAND  WHATELY 

said  as  soon  as  she  had  recovered  her  breath,  "and  it's 
the  funniest  sight  I've  seen;  you've  been  walking  up 
and  down  the  path  with  your  head  in  the  air,  and  your 
hands  clenched  together  behind  your  back,  and  your 
lips  were  moving.  I'm  certain  you  were  talking  to 
yourself.  I  couldn't  think  what  you  were  doing.  I 
sat  behind  that  bush  there  and  watched  you  going  up 
and  down  and  up  and  down,  your  hands  clenched  and 
your  head  flung  back,  and  your  lips  moving,  and  then 
at  last  I  guessed " 

"Well,  what  was  it?" 

"You  were  composing  poetry.  Now,  don't  laugh, 
I'm  serious,  and  I  want  to  know  who  you  were  com- 
posing it  for." 

"Well,  who  do  you  think  it  was?" 

"That  girl,  of  course." 

"What  girl?" 

"Why,  the  girl  you  told  me  about  yesterday!" 

"Oh,  that " 

"Yes;  oh,  that!    But  you  were  now,  weren't  you?" 

"No,  I  wasn't.  You  can't  see  me  wasting  my  time 
on  poetry.  Besides,  I  couldn't  do  it." 

"Then,  what  were  you  doing?" 

"Thinking." 

"Who  about?" 

"You,  of  course." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  the  light  hair 
scattering  in  the  sunlight.  "Oh,  no,  no,  no!  If  you 
had  been  thinking  about  me,  it  might  have  occurred 
to  you  that  I  had  no  one  in  this  large  party  to  amuse 
me  and  that  I  might  very  likely  be  lonely.  And  if  you 
had  thought  of  that,  and  had  gone  on  thinking  that, 
with  your  head  flung  back " 

"Yes,  I  know  all  about  that  head." 

"Well,  if  you  had  been  thinking  of  me  all  that  time, 


LILITH  OF  OLD  189 

and  hadn't  considered  it  worth  your  while  to  come 
and  see  what  I  was  doing,  I  should  be  very  cross  with 
you.  But  as  I  know  you  weren't  I  don't  mind.  But 
come  along  now;  what  was  it  all  about?"  And,  sitting 
down  on  the  garden  seat,  she  curled  herself  into  a 
corner  and  prepared  herself  for  catechism.  "Now, 
come  on,"  she  said,  "who  was  it?" 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  it  was  your  Aunt 
Beatrice." 

Muriel  pouted. 

"Her!    What  do  you  want  to  think  about  her  for?" 

"I  don't  know.  She's  rather  interesting,  don't  you 
think?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  and  Muriel  spoke  sharply  in  a  tone 
that  Roland  had  never  before  encountered. 

"But "  he  began. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  she  said,  "if  you've  been  think- 
ing about  Aunt  Beatrice  for  the  last  ten  minutes  you 
won't  want  to  talk  about  her  now.  Come  and  have 
a  game  of  tennis." 

And  she  jumped  up  from  her  seat  and  walked  up 
towards  the  house.  Roland  felt,  as  he  prepared  to 
follow  her,  that  it  was  an  abrupt  way  to  end  a  con- 
versation that  she  had  forced  on  him. 

And  that  night,  as  he  undressed,  Roland  had  to  own 
to  himself  that  altogether  it  had  not  been  a  satisfac- 
tory day.  There  had  been  the  incident  at  the  break- 
fast table,  the  rebuff  on  the. croquet  lawn,  the  coldness 
that  had  arisen  between  himself  and  Muriel,  and 
then,  although  he  had  done  fairly  well  in  the  cricket 
match,  he  had  not  achieved  the  goal  which,  he  had  to 
confess,  had  been  his  great  incentive  to  prowess — 
namely,  the  approval  of  Beatrice. 

He  had  made  twenty-seven  in  the  first  innings — a 
good  twenty-seven,  aU  things  considered.  He  had 


190  ROLAND  WHATELY 

had  two  yorkers  in  his  first  over.  He  had  played  a 
large  part  in  the  gradual  wearing  down  of  the  bowl- 
ing, that  had  paved  the  way  for  some  heavy  hitting 
by  the  tail.  He  had  made  several  very  pretty  shots. 
There  had  been  that  late  cut  off  the  fast  bowler — a 
beauty ;  he  had  come  down  on  it  perfectly,  and  it  had 
gone  past  second  slip  out  of  reach  of  the  third  man 
for  three;  and  then  there  had  been  that  four  off  the 
slow  bowler  who  had  tied  up  Gerald  so  completely; 
he  had  played  him  quite  confidently.  Mr.  Marston 
had,  indeed,  complimented  him  on  the  way  he  had 
placed  the  short-pitched  balls  in  front  of  short-square 
for  singles.  It  had  been  a  pretty  useful  innings,  but 
though  he  had  kept  turning  his  eyes  in  the  direction 
of  the  pavilion,  and  especially  to  the  shaded  side  of 
it,  where  the  ladies  reclined  in  deck-chairs,  he  had 
failed  to  discover  any  manifestation  of  excitement, 
pleasure  or  even  interest  on  the  part  of  Beatrice  in 
his  achievements.  True,  he  had  once  seen  her  hands 
meet  in  a  desultory  clap,  but  that  clap  had  rewarded 
what  was,  after  all,  a  comparatively  simple  hit,  a 
half-volley  outside  the  off  stump  that  he  had  hit  past 
cover  to  the  boundary,  and  as  that  solitary  clap  came 
a  full  thirty  seconds  after  the  rest  of  the  pavilion 
had  begun  clapping,  and  ceased  a  good  thirty  seconds 
before  anyone  else  clapping  in  the  pavilion  ceased, 
he  was  obliged  to  feel  that  the  applause  was  more 
the  acquittal  of  a  social  duty  than  any  recognition 
of  his  own  prowess,  and  when  he  was  finally  given 
leg  before  to  a  ball,  that  would  certainly  have  passed 
a  foot  above  the  stumps,  she  did  not  smile  at  him 
with  congratulations  nor  did  she  attempt  to  console 
him,  though  he  gave  her  every  opportunity  of  doing 
so  had  she  wished  by  walking  round  three  sides  of  a 
rectangle,  and  reaching  the  dressing-room  by  means 


LILITH  OF  OLD  191 

of  the  shaded  lawn  on  the  left  of  the  pavilion.  No. 
His  cricket  had  not  interested  her  in  the  least,  and 
it  was  exasperating  to  see  her  face  kindle  with  en- 
thusiasm when  the  wicket  keeper  and  the  slow  bowler 
put  on  fifty  runs  for  the  last  wicket  through  a  series 
of  the  most  outrageous  flukes  that  have  ever  dis- 
graced a  cricket  field. 

Not  a  single  ball  was  hit  along  the  ground  and  only 
rarely  did  it  follow  the  direction  in  which  the  bat  was 
swung.  Length  balls  on  the  off  stump  flew  over  the 
head  of  mid-on,  of  point,  and  second  slip,  to  fall  time 
after  time  providentially  out  of  reach.  The  fielding 
side  grew  exasperated;  slow  bowlers  tried  to  bowl 
fast  and  fast  bowlers  had  a  shot  with  lobs;  full 
pitches  even  were  attempted,  and  these,  too,  were 
smitten  violently  over  the  heads  of  the  instanding 
fieldsmen  and  out  of  reach  of  the  deeps.  It  was  a 
spectacle  that  would  at  ordinary  times  have  flung 
Roland  into  convulsions  of  delight,  but  on  this  occa- 
sion it  annoyed  him  beyond  measure.  He  felt  as 
must  a  music-hall  artist  whose  high-class  perform- 
ance has  been  received  with  only  mild  approval  when 
he  watches  the  same  audience  lose  itself  in  caterwauls 
of  hilarious  appreciation  at  the  debauched  antics  of 
a  vulgar  comedian  with  a  false  nose  and  trousers 
turned  the  wrong  way  round  who  sings  a  song  about 
his  "ma-in-law  and  the  boarding-house."  For  there 
was  Beatrice,  who  had  hardly  taken  the  trouble  to 
watch  his  innings,  laughing  and  clapping  the  prepos- 
terous exhibition  of  this  last  wicket  pair.  It  was  a 
real  relief  to  him  when  the  slow  bowler,  in  a  desperate 
effort  to  hook  an  off  ball  to  the  square  by  boundary, 
trod  on  his  middle  stump  and  nearly  collapsed  amid 
the  debris  of  the  wicket. 

Altogether  it  had  been  an  unsatisfactory  day  and 


192  ROLAND  WHATELY 

it  was  typical  of  the  whole  week.  He  had  looked  for- 
ward to  it  eagerly;  he  had  meant  to  enjoy  himself  so 
much — the  quiet  mornings  in  the  garden,  the  inspec- 
tion of  the  wicket,  the  change  into  flannels,  the  vary- 
ing fortune  of  cricket,  the  long  enchantment  of  a 
warm,  heavy  afternoon,  and  afterwards  the  good  din- 
ner, the  comradeship,  the  kindly  interplay  of  talk, 
till  finally  sleep  came  to  a  mind  at  harmony  with 
itself  and  full  of  agreeable  echoes.  How  good  these 
things  had  seemed  to  him  in  imagination.  But,  ac- 
tually, there  was  something  missing.  The  weather 
was  fine,  the  cricket  good,  the  company  agreeable, 
but  the  harmony  was  broken.  He  was  disquieted. 
He  did  not  wake  in  the  morning  with  that  deep  un- 
troubled sense  of  enjoyment;  he  had  instead,  a  belief 
that  something  was  going  to  happen;  he  was  always 
looking  to  the  next  thing  instead  of  abiding  content- 
edly in  the  moment. 

And  this  mental  turmoil  could  only  be  attributed 
to  the  presence  of  Beatrice.  She  disturbed  him  and 
excited  him.  His  eyes  followed  her  about  the  room. 
Whenever  he  was  away  from  her  he  wondered  what 
she  was  doing  and  wished  she  would  come  back;  but 
in  her  presence  he  was  unhappy  and  self-conscious. 
He  hardly  joined  in  the  general  conversation  of  the 
table  for  shyness  of  what  she  would  think  of  him. 
On  the  few  occasions  when  he  sat  next  to  her  he 
could  think  of  nothing  to  say  to  her,  nothing,  that  is 
to  say,  that  was  individual,  that  might  not  have  been, 
and  as  a  matter  of  fact  probably  had  been,  said  to  her 
by  every  other  young  man  in  the  room. 

He  would  hazard  some  remark  about  the  weather — 
it  was  rather  hot;  did  she  think  there  was  any  dan- 
ger of  a  thunderstorm? 

"I  hope  not,"  she  would  answer;  "it  would  spoil 


LILITH  OF  OLD  193 

everything,  wouldn't  it?"  She  assumed  the  voice  of 
a  mother  that  is  endeavoring  to  reassure  a  small  child. 
Cricket  was  like  a  plaything  in  the  nursery.  "That  is 
what  she  takes  me  for,"  he  said  to  himself — "an  over- 
grown schoolboy" ;  and  he  prayed  for  an  opportunity 
of  saying  something  brilliant  and  evocative  that  would 
startle  her  into  an  interest  for  him.  If  only  he  could 
lead  the  conversation  away  from  heavy  trivialities  to 
shadowy  conjectures,  wistful  regrets;  if  only  they 
could  talk  of  life  and  its  disenchantments,  its  exqui- 
site gestures;  of  sorrow,  happiness  and  resignation. 
But  how  were  they  to  talk  of  it?  If  she  thought  about 
him  at  all,  which  was  doubtful,  or  in  any  way  dif- 
ferentiated him  from  the  other  young  men  of  the 
party,  she  would  probably  consider  that  he  was  flat- 
tered by  her  gracious  inquiries  about  his  batting  aver- 
age. How  was  she  to  know  what  he  was  feeling;  and 
how  was  he  to  introduce  so  portentous  a  subject?  He 
recognized  with  a  smile  what  a  sensation  he  would 
cause  were  he  to  lean  across  to  her  and  say:  "What 
do  you,  Mrs.  Arnold,  consider  to  be  the  ultimate  sig- 
nificance of  life?"  His  question  would  be  sure  to 
coincide  with  one  of  those  sudden  silences  that  occur 
unexpectedly  in  the  middle  of  a  meal,  and  his  words 
would  fall  into  that  pool  of  quivering  silence,  scatter- 
ing ripples  of  horror  and  dismay.  Mr.  Marston  would 
stare  at  him,  Muriel  would  giggle  and  say  she  had 
known  all  the  time  he  was  a  poet,  and  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  party  would  gaze  at  him  in  astonished 
pity.  "Poor  fellow!"  their  glances  would  say;  "quite 
balmy!"  And  Beatrice?  she  would  dismiss  the  situa- 
tion with  an  agreeable  pleasantry  that  would  put 
everyone  save  Roland  at  his  ease.  He  did  not  in  the 
least  see  how  he  was  to  win  her  confidence. 

His  looks  had  not  impressed  her,  as,  indeed,  why 


194  ROLAND  WHATELY 

should  they?  His  features  were  neither  strikingly 
handsome  nor  strikingly  ugly;  they  were  ordinary. 
He  was  not  clever,  at  least  his  cleverness  did  not 
transpire  in  conversational  brilliance  and  repartee; 
and  she  was  not  interested  in  cricket.  He  envied  the 
ease  with  which  Gerald  talked  to  her,  the  way  they 
laughed  and  ragged  each  other.  They  were  such  good 
friends.  It  had  been  in  Gerald's  company  that  he 
had  first  seen  her.  Was  Gerald  in  love  with  her,  he 
wondered.  Gerald  had  never  confided  to  him  any  re- 
cent love  affair,  and  perhaps  this  was  the  reason.  It 
was  not  unlikely.  She  was  young,  she  was  lonely,  she 
was  beautiful.  He  asked  Muriel  whether  she  thought 
there  was  any  cause  for  his  anxiety. 

"What!"  she  said.  "Gerald  and  Aunt  Beatrice  in 
love  with  each  other!" 

"Yes;  why  not.  She's  not  in  love  with  her  hus- 
band, and  I  don't  see  why  at  all "  He  stopped, 

for  Muriel  was  fixing  him  with  a  fierce  and  penetra- 
tive glare. 

"No,"  she  said,  "there's  not  the  least  danger  of 
Gerald  falling  in  love  with  Aunt  Beatrice,  but  if  you 
aren't  very  careful,  someone  else  will  be  very  soon!" 

He  laughed  uncomfortably. 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly!" 

"So  you  know  who  I  mean,  don't  you?" 

"You  mean  me,  I  suppose." 

"Of  course." 

He  tried  to  dismiss  the  subject  with  a  laugh. 

"And  that  would  never  do,  would  it?" 

It  was  not  successful.  Muriel  looked  more  an- 
noyed than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before.  It  was  ab- 
surd of  her.  She  must  know  that  he  was  only  rag- 
ging. They  had  always  been  so  open  with  one 
another,  so  charmingly  indiscreet. 


LILITH  OF  OLD  195 

"No,  it  wouldn't,"  she  said. 

He  waited,  thinking  she  was  going  to  add  some 
qualification  to  this  plain  denial.  Her  lips  indeed 
began  to  frame  a  syllable,  when  in  response  to  some 
swift  resolution  she  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  well,"  she 
said,  "it  doesn't  matter." 

There  was  no  use  denying  it:  it  had  not  been  the 
week  he  had  expected. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  TWO   CURRENTS 

ROLAND  returned  home  dissatisfied  with  himself 
and  anxious  to  vent  the  dissatisfaction  on  some- 
one else.  He  was  in  a  mood  when  the  least  thing 
would  be  likely  to  set  him  into  a  flaring  temper,  and 
at  dinner  his  father  provided  the  necessary  excitant. 
They  were  considering  the  advisability  of  having  the 
dining  room  repapered  and  Mr.  Whately  was  doubt- 
ing whether  such  an  expensive  improvement  would 
be  possible  for  their  restricted  means. 

"I  don't  know  whether  we  can  manage  that  just 
now,"  he  said.  "We  have  had  one  or  two  little  extras 
this  last  year  or  so;  there  was  the  new  stair  carpet 
and  then  the  curtains  on  the  second  landing.  I  really 
think  that  we  ought  to  be  a  little  careful  just  now. 
Of  course  later  on,  when  Roland  and  April  are 

married "  And  he  paused  to  beam  graciously 

upon  his  son  before  completing  the  sentence.  "As  I 

was  saying,  when  Roland  and  April But  he 

never  completed  the  sentence.  It  remained  forever 
an  anacoluthon.  It  was  that  beam  that  did  it.  It 
exasperated  Roland  beyond  words.  Its  graciousness 
became  idiocy. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that,  father,"  he  said. 
"We've  heard  that  joke  too  often." 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  silence.  Mr.  Whately 
was  for  a  moment  too  surprised  to  speak.  He  had 

196 


THE  TWO  CURRENTS  197 

made  that  little  pleasantry  so  often  that  it  had  be- 
come part  of  his  conversational  repertory.  He  could 
not  understand  Roland's  outburst;  at  first  he  was 
hurt;  then  he  felt  that  he  had  been  insulted,  and,  like 
all  weak  men,  he  was  prone  to  stand  upon  his  dig- 
nity. 

"That's  not  the  way  to  talk  to  your  father,  Roland." 

"I'm  sorry,  father,  but  oh,  I  don't  know,  I  ..." 
Roland  hesitated,  and  the  matter  should  then  have 
been  allowed  to  drop.  Mrs.  Whately  had  indeed  pre- 
pared to  interfere  with  an  irrelevant  comment  on  a 
friend's  theory  of  house  decoration,  but  Mr.  Whately, 
having  once  started  on  an  assault,  was  loath  to  aban- 
don it.  "No,  Roland,  that's  not  at  all  the  way  to 
speak  to  me,  and  I  don't  know  what  you've  got  to 
be  impatient  with  me  about.  You  know  quite  well 
that  you're  going  to  marry  April  in  time." 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"Don't  be  absurd ;  of  course  you  do ;  it  was  arranged 
a  long  time  ago." 

"No,  it  wasn't ;  nothing's  been  arranged.  We're  not 
engaged,  and  I  won't  have  all  this  talk  about  'when 
Roland  and  April  are  married.'  Do  you  hear?  I  will 
not  have  it!" 

It  was  a  surprising  outburst.  Roland  was  usually 
so  even  tempered,  and  the  moment  afterwards  he  was 
bitterly  ashamed  of  himself. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know  what  I  was 
saying." 

For  a  moment  his  father  did  not  answer  him.  Then : 
"It's  all  right,  Roland,"  he  said;  "we  understand." 

But  Roland  saw  quite  clearly  he  was  not  forgiven, 
that  his  behavior  had  increased  the  estrangement  that 
had  existed  between  his  father  and  himself  ever  since, 
without  asking  parental  advice,  he  had  abandoned 


198  ROLAND  WHATELY 

the  idea  of  the  bank.  They  did  not  talk  much  after 
dinner,  and  Mr.  Whately  went  to  bed  early,  leaving 
Roland  and  his  mother  alone.  It  was  easier  now  that 
he  had  gone. 

"I  feel  such  a  beast,"  Roland  said.  "I  don't  know 
what  made  me  do  it.  I  was  worried  and  tired.  I 
didn't  enjoy  myself  as  much  as  I  had  hoped  to  down 
at  Hogstead." 

"I  know,  dear,  I  know.  We  all  feel  like  that  some- 
times, but  I  don't  see  why  that  particular  thing  should 
have  upset  you.  After  all,  it's  a  very  old  joke  of 
father's;  you've  heard  it  so  often  before." 

"I  know,  mother,  I  know.  I  don't  know  what  it 
was." 

He  could  not  make  clear  to  her,  if  she  was  unable 
to  appreciate  through  her  intuition,  his  distaste  for 
this  harping  on  his  marriage,  this  inevitable  event 
to  which  he  had  to  come,  the  fate  that  he  could  in 
no  way  avoid. 

"Really,  dear,"  his  mother  went  on,  "I  couldn't 
understand  it.  You  haven't  had  any  row  with  April, 
have  you?" 

"Oh,  no ;  nothing  like  that,  nothing." 

"Then  really,  dear " 

"I  know,  mother,  I  know." 

It  was  no  good  trying  to  explain  to  her.  Could 
anyone  ever  communicate  their  grief,  or  their  happi- 
ness for  that  matter,  to  another?  Was  it  not  the  fate 
of  every  human  soul  to  be  shut  away  from  sympathy 
behind  the  wall  he  himself  throws  up  for  his  defense? 

"And,  dear,  while  we're  on  the  question,"  his 
mother  was  saying,  "both  father  and  I  have  been 
thinking  that — well,  dear,  you've  been  spending  rather 
a  lot  of  money  lately,  and  we  thought  that,  though 
you  have  such  a  certain  post,  you  really  ought  to 


THE  TWO  CURRENTS  199 

take  the  opportunity  of  putting  by  a  little  money  for 
setting  up  your  house  later  on.  Don't  you  think 
so,  dear?" 

"I  suppose  so,  mother." 

"You  see  you've  got  practically  no  expenses  now. 
I  know  you  pay  us  something  every  week,  and  it's 
very  good  of  you  to,  but  you  could  quite  easily  save 
fifty  pounds  a  year." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"And  don't  you  think  you  ought  to?" 

"Ill  try,  mother,  I'll  try." 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  walked  across  to  him,  and, 
bending  down,  kissed  his  forehead. 

"We  do  feel  for  you,  dear,"  she  said,  "really  we  do." 

"I  know  you  do,  mother." 

For  a  long  while  after  she  had  left  him  Roland 
remained  in  the  drawing-room;  he  was  burdened  by 
a  confused  reaction  against  the  influences  that  were 
shaping  his  future  for  him.  He  supposed  he  was  in 
love  with  April,  that  one  day  he  would  marry  her; 
but  was  there  any  need  for  this  insistence  upon  domes- 
ticity? Could  he  not  be  free  a  little  longer?  His  eyes 
traveled  miserably  round  the  small,  insignificant 
drawing-room.  The  window  curtains  had  long  since 
yielded  their  fresh  color  to  the  sunshine  and  hung 
dingily  hi  the  gaslight.  The  wall  paper  was  shabby 
and  tawdry,  with  its  festooned  roses.  The  carpet 
near  the  door  was  threadbare;  the  coverings  to  the 
stiff-backed  chairs  were  dull  and  crinkly.  This  was 
what  marriage  meant  to  men  and  women  in  his  posi- 
tion. He  contrasted  the  narrow  room  with  the  com- 
fort and  repose  of  Hogstead.  What  chance  did  people 
stand  whose  lives  were  circumscribed  by  endless  finan- 
cial difficulties,  who  could  not  afford  to  surround 
themselves  with  deep  arm-chairs  and  heavy  carpets 


200  ROLAND  WHATELY 

and  warm-colored  wall  papers?  It  was  cruel  that 
now,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  had  begun  to  es- 
cape from  the  drab  environment  of  his  childhood, 
these  fetters  should  be  attached  to  him.  It  was  cruel. 
And  rising  from  his  chair  he  walked  backwards  and 
forwards,  up  and  down  the  room.  The  days  of  his 
freedom  were  already  numbered.  They  would  be  soon 
ended,  the  days  of  irresponsible,  unreflecting  action. 
It  was  maddening,  this  semblance  of  liberty  where 
there  was  no  liberty.  He  recalled  a  simile  in  a  novel 
he  had  once  read,  though  the  name  of  the  book  and 
of  the  author  had  escaped  his  memory,  in  which 
human  beings  were  described  as  fishes  swimming  in 
clear  water,  with  the  net  of  the  fisherman  about 
them.  He  was  like  that.  He  was  swimming  in  clear 
water,  but  at  any  moment  the  fisherman  might  lift 
the  net  and  he  would  be  gasping  and  quivering  on 
the  bank. 

Next  day,  in  pitiful  reaction,  he  presented  to  Mr. 
Marston  a  request  to  be  allowed  to  commence  his  for- 
eign tour  immediately  instead  of,  as  had  been  pre- 
viously arranged,  in  the  beginning  of  the  autumn. 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,"  Mr.  Marston  expostulated, 
"you  surely  don't  want  to  go  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  cricket  season,  when  you're  in  such  splendid  form? 
Think  what  games  you'll  be  missing.  There's  the 
Whittington  match  in  August.  We  simply  can't  do 
without  you.  And  then  there's  that  game  against 
Hogstead  in  September,  in  which  you  did  so  splen- 
didly last  year.  It's  no  good,  my  dear  fellow,  we 
simply  can't  spare  you." 

But  Roland  was  stubborn. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  he  said,  "but  I  do  feel  that  I 
ought  to  be  going  out  there  soon,  and  July  and  Au- 
gust will  be  slack  months — just  the  time  to  see  people 


THE  TWO  CURRENTS  201 

and  form  alliances.  In  the  autumn  they  would  be 
too  busy  to  worry  about  me." 

Mr.  Marston  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  an- 
noying, but  still  the  business  came  first,  he  supposed. 

"All  right,  my  dear  fellow.  I  daresay  you  are 
right.  And  I  am  glad  to  see  you  are  so  keen  on  your 
work.  I  only  wish  Gerald  was." 

"Oh,  but  I  think  he  is  really,  sir,"  said  Roland,  who, 
for  one  horrible  moment,  had  a  feeling  that  he  was 
playing  a  mean  trick  on  Gerald.  At  school  he  had 
resented  the  way  that  little  Mark-Grubber  Shrimpton 
had  gone  up  to  Crusoe  at  the  end  of  the  hour  to  ask 
his  questions.  He  had  found  a  nasty  name  for  such 
behavior  then,  and  was  there  so  much  difference  be- 
tween Shrimpton's  thirst  for  knowledge  and  his  own 
desire  to  travel  when  he  might  have  been  playing 
cricket?  But  Mr.  Marston  speedily  reassured  him. 

"Oh,  yes ;  Gerald — he's  keen  enough  of  course,  and, 
after  all,  he's  rather  different.  He's  known  all  along 
there  was  no  necessity  for  him  to  over-exert  himself, 
and  I  daresay  he's  heard  so  much  shop  talked  that 
he's  got  pretty  sick  of  the  whole  thing.  You  have 
come  fresh  to  it." 

"Then  I  may  go,  sir?" 

"Yes,  yes,  if  you  want  to.  I'll  ask  Mr.  Perkins  to 
make  an  arrangement.  I  expect  we'll  be  able  to  get 
rid  of  you  next  week." 

And  so  it  was  arranged. 

Two  days  before  his  departure,  as  he  was  bounding 
downstairs  on  his  way  to  lunch,  Roland  was  suddenly 
confronted  at  the  turn  of  the  staircase  below  the  sec- 
ond landing  by  a  tall,  graceful  figure,  in  a  wide- 
brimmed  hat  and  light  crinkly  hair.  He  gave  a  sur- 
prised gasp.  "I  am  so  sorry,"  he  began ;  then  saw  that 


202  ROLAND  WHATELY 

it  was  Beatrice.  "Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Arnold?" 
It  was  rather  dark  and  for  a  moment  she  did  not  rec- 
ognize him. 

"Oh,  but  of  course — why,  it's  Mr.  Whately!  And 
how  fortunate!  I  was  wondering  how  I  should  ever 
get  to  the  top  of  these  enormous  stairs.  I  can't  think 
why  you  don't  have  a  lift.  I've  come  to  see  Gerald. 
Do  you  think  you  could  run  and  tell  him  I'm  here? 
I  suppose  I  should  have  gone  and  asked  one  of  your 
clerks,  but  they  do  so  embarrass  me.  Oh,  thank  you 
so  much.  It  is  kind." 

Within  a  minute  Roland  had  returned  with  the 
news  that  Gerald  had  already  gone  out  to  lunch,  that 
his  secretary  did  not  know  where  he  had  gone,  but 
that  he  had  left  a  message  stating  that  he  was  not 
to  be  expected  back  before  three. 

A  look  of  disappointment  crossed  her  face. 

"Oh,  but  how  annoying!"  she  said.  "And  I  had 
wanted  him  to  take  me  out  to  lunch.  We  haven't 
seen  each  other  for  such  a  long  time.  I  suppose  it's 
my  own  fault.  I  ought  to  have  let  him  know.  All 
the  same,  thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Whately." 

She  had  half  turned  to  go,  when  Roland,  with  one 
of  those  sudden  inspirations,  of  which  a  moment's 
thought  would  have  rendered  him  incapable,  sug- 
gested that  she  should  come  out  and  lunch  with  him 
instead.  "It  would  be  so  delightful  for  me  if  you 
would." 

As  she  turned  towards  him,  her  features  expressing 
an  obvious  surprise,  he  wondered  how  on  earth  he  had 
had  the  courage  to  ask  her.  He  had  never  seen  her 
look  more  beautiful  than  she  did,  standing  there  in 
the  half  light  of  the  staircase,  her  pale  blue  dress  sil- 
houetted against  the  dull  brown  of  the  woodwork, 
and  one  arm  flung  out  along  the  banister.  For  a  mo- 


THE  TWO  CURRENTS  203 

ment  he  thought  that  she  was  going  to  refuse,  when 
suddenly  the  look  of  surprise  passed  into  a  gracious 
smile. 

"But  how  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Whately;  I  should 
love  to." 

He  took  her  to  a  smart  but  quiet  restaurant  that 
was  mostly  used  by  city  men  wishing  to  lunch  unob- 
trusively with  their  secretaries,  and  they  were  lucky 
enough  to  find  a  corner  table.  At  first  he  found  con- 
versation a  little  difficult;  the  waiter  was  so  slow 
bringing  the  dishes.  There  were  uncomfortable 
pauses  in  their  talk.  But  by  the  time  they  had  fin- 
ished their  fish,  and  drunk  a  little  wine,  Roland's 
nervousness  had  passed.  It  was  a  delight  to  look 
at  her,  a  delight  to  listen  to  the  soft  intonations  of 
her  voice;  and  here  hi  the  quiet  intimacy  of  the  res- 
taurant he  was  able  to  appreciate  even  more  acutely 
than  at  Hogstead  the  mystery  and  romance  that 
surrounded  her.  The  pathos  of  her  life  was  actual 
to  him;  they  were  discussing  a  new  novel  that  had 
been  much  praised,  but  of  which  she  had  complained 
a  falsity  to  life. 

"But  then  you  are  so  different  from  the  rest  of 
us,"  he  had  said. 

"Ah,  don't  say  that,"  she  replied  quickly.  "I'm 
so  anxious  to  be  the  same  as  all  of  you,  to  live  your 
life  and  share  your  interests.  It's  so  lonely  being 
different." 

She  made  him  talk  of  himself,  of  his  hopes  and  his 
ambitions.  And  he  told  her  that  in  two  days'  time  he 
would  be  going  abroad. 

"In  the  middle  of  August !  Before  the  cricket  sea- 
son's over!  What  horrid  luck!" 

"Oh,  no,  I  wanted  to  go,"  said  Roland.  "I  was 
getting  tired  of  things.  I  wanted  a  change." 


204  ROLAND  WHATELY 

She  looked  at  him  with  curiosity,  a  new  interest  for 
him  in  her  deep  dove-colored  eyes. 

"You,  too!"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  Roland  continued.  "I 
feel  restless;  I  feel  I  must  break  loose.  It's  all  the 
same,  one  day  after  another,  and  what  does  it  lead  to?" 

She  leaned  forward,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her 
face  resting  upon  the  backs  of  her  hands. 

"Ah,  don't  I  know  that  feeling,"  she  said;  "one 
waits,  one  says,  'Something  is  sure  to  happen  soon.' 
But  it  doesn't,  and  one  goes  on  waiting.  And  one 
tries  to  run  away,  but  one  can't  escape  from  one- 
self." Their  eyes  met  and  there  seemed  to  be  no 
further  need  for  words  between  them.  Roland's 
thoughts  traveled  into  spaces  of  vague  and  wistful 
speculation.  A  profound  melancholy  consumed  him, 
a  melancholy  that  was  at  the  same  time  pleasant — 
a  sugared  sadness. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Roland?"  The  use  of 
his  Christian  name  caused  no  surprise  to  him ;  it  was 
natural  that  she  should  address  him  so.  He  answered 
her,  his  eyes  looking  into  hers. 

"I  was  thinking  of  how  we  spend  our  whole  lives 
looking  forward  to  things  and  looking  back  to  things 
and  that  in  itself  the  thing  is  nothing." 

She  smiled  at  him.  "So  you've  found  that  out 
too?"  she  said.  Then  she  laughed  quickly.  "But  you 
mustn't  get  mournful  when  you  are  with  me.  You've 
all  your  life  before  you  and  you're  going  to  be  fright- 
fully successful  and  frightfully  happy.  I  shall  so 
enjoy  watching  you.  And  now  I  must  really  be  rush- 
ing off.  You've  given  me  a  most  delightful  time"; 
and  she  began  to  gather  up  her  gloves  and  the  silk 
purse  that  hung  by  a  gold  chain  from  her  wrist. 

Roland  could  do  little  work  that  afternoon;  his 


THE  TWO  CURRENTS  205 

thoughts  wandered  from  the  ledger  at  his  side  and 
from  the  files  of  the  financial  news.  And  that  eve- 
ning he  was  more  acutely  aware  than  usual  of  the  un- 
colored  dreariness  of  his  home.  For  him  Beatrice 
was  the  composite  vision  of  that  other  world  from 
which  the  course  of  his  life  was  endeavoring  to  lead 
him.  She  represented,  for  him,  romance,  adventure, 
the  flower  and  ecstasy  of  life. 

But  two  days  later  he  felt  once  again,  as  he  leaned 
against  the  taffrail  to  watch  the  English  coast  fade 
into  a  dim  haze,  that  he  was  letting  drop  from  his 
shoulders  the  accumulated  responsibilities  of  the  past 
six  months.  Did  it  matter  then  so  much  what  hap- 
pened to  him  over  there  behind  that  low-lying  bank 
of  cloud  if  he  could  at  any  moment  step  out  of  his 
captivity,  relinquish  his  anxieties  and  enter  a  world 
that  knew  nothing  of  April  or  of  his  parents,  that 
accepted  him  on  his  own  valuation  as  a  young  man 
with  agreeable  manners  and  a  comfortable  independ- 
ence? Who  that  held  the  keys  of  his  dungeon  could 
be  called  a  prisoner? 


PART  III 

THE  FIRST  ENCOUNTERS 


CHAPTER  XV 

SUCCESS 

HE  felt  less  certain  of  his  freedom  when  he 
watched,  three  months  later,  the  white  coast  of 
England  take  visible  shape  on  the  horizon.  He 
should  have  been  feeling  very  happy.  He  was  re- 
turning to  his  friends,  his  home,  his  girl.  And  he  was 
returning  with  credit.  He  had  not  made,  it  is  true, 
large  profits  for  the  firm,  but  that  had  not  been  ex- 
pected of  him.  He  had  done  what  he  had  been  told 
to  do.  He  had  established  important  connections, 
made  friends  with  two  large  business  men,  and,  inci- 
dentally, brought  several  thousand  pounds'  worth  of 
business  to  the  firm  of  Marston  &  Marston.  He  had 
done  better  than  had  been  expected.  When  he  had 
written  home  and  told  Mr.  Marston  that  M.  Roche- 
ville  was  prepared  to  sign  a  contract  for  varnish  on 
behalf  of  the  Belgian  Government,  Mr.  Marston  had 
dropped  the  letter  on  his  desk  and  had  sat  back  in 
his  chair  amazed  at  this  good  fortune;  and  when,  a 
fortnight  later,  the  news  arrived  of  a  possible  com- 
bination with  the  German  firm  of  Haupsehr  &  Froh- 
mann,  Mr.  Marston  had  jumped  from  his  seat  and 
walked  backwards  and  forwards,  up  and  down  the 
office.  And  for  two  days  he  disconcerted  his  secre- 
tary by  muttering  in  the  middle  of  his  dictation: 
"Marvelous  boy!  marvelous  boy!" 

And  he  had  been  marvelous  both  in  his  fortune 

209 


210  ROLAND  WHATELY 

and  in  his  audacity.  He  had  met  M.  Rocheville 
under  circumstances  of  ridiculous  improbability.  He 
was  dining  at  a  small  restaurant  in  Antwerp ;  he  had 
just  ordered  his  meal  and  had  commenced  his  study 
of  the  wine  list  when  he  became  conscious  of  a  com- 
motion at  the  table  on  his  left.  There  was  a  mingling 
of  voices,  reproachful,  importunate,  and  one  in  par- 
ticular feebly  explanatory.  Roland  listened,  and 
gathered  from  the  torrent  of  words  that  the  owner 
of  the  feeble  voice  had  lost  his  purse  and  was  trying 
to  explain  that  he  had  friends  in  the  town  and  would 
return  and  settle  the  account  on  the  next  day.  But 
the  proprietor,  from  a  long  experience  of  insolvent 
artists,  actors,  courtesans  and  other  dwellers  on  the 
fringe  of  respectability,  demanded  a  more  substantial 
guarantee  than  the  card  which  the  subject  of  the  mis- 
fortune was  offering  him. 

"No,  no,"  he  was  saying,  "it  is  not  enough;  you 
will  leave  me  your  watch  and  that  ring  upon  your 

second  finger  and  you  may  go.  Otherwise "  And 

he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  To  this  the  prosperous 
little  gentleman,  whom  an  empty  bucket  beneath  the 
table  proved  to  have  dined  expensively,  would  not 
agree.  It  was  a  personal  affront,  an  insult  to  his 
name,  and  he  brandished  his  card  in  the  face  of  the 
proprietor;  it  availed  little,  and  the  intervention  of 
the  police  was  imminent  when  Roland  heard  the 
name  "Rocheville"  flung  suddenly  like  a  spear  among 
the  waiters. 

On  the  waiters  it  had  no  effect;  they  winked, 
nodded,  smiled  to  one  another.  They  had  heard  that 
tale  before.  Many  indignant  customers  had  flourished 
the  trade-mark  of  their  reputation.  Had  not  a  poet 
produced  once  from  his  pocket  the  review  of  his  latest 
book  as  a  proof  of  his  nobility?  To  the  waiters  the 


SUCCESS  211 

word  "Rocheville"  meant  nothing;  to  Roland  it  meant 
much.  The  most  important  man  in  the  Army  Ord- 
nance Department  was  named  Rocheville.  He  might 
not  be  the  same  man,  of  course,  but  it  was  worth  the 
experiment;  certainly  it  was  worth  the  loss  of  fifty 
francs  that  he  would  charge  to  the  firm  as  a  "special 
expense." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  walked  across  to  M. 
Rocheville. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said.  "I  trust  you  will 
forgive  me  if  I  am  committing  an  impertinence,  but 
from  what  I  overheard  I  gathered  that  you  had  lost 
your  purse.  If  that  is  so,  please  allow  me  to  lend  you 
whatever  you  may  need  to  settle  your  account." 

"But,  sir — no,  really  I  couldn't;  it  would  be  an 
unthinkable  liberty." 

But  Roland  insisted.  And  having  appeased  the 
proprietor,  who  retired  in  a  profusion  of  bows,  he 
turned  again  to  meet  M.  Rocheville's  thanks. 

"But  it  was  nothing,  sir,  really  it  was  nothing,  and 
I  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  a  gentleman  being 
submitted  to  such  an  inconvenience." 

Monsieur  Rocheville  executed  an  elaborate  bow. 

"It  is  too  kind  of  you,  and  if  you  will  give  me  your 
address  I  will  see  that  a  cheque  is  sent  to  you  to- 
morrow." 

"But  I'm  afraid  that  I  go  to  Brussels  first  thing 
to-morrow,  and  I  am  not  certain  at  which  hotel  I  shall 
be  stopping.  But  it  does  not  matter." 

"But  it  does,  of  course  it  does,"  M.  Rocheville  ex- 
postulated. "How  shall  we  manage  it?" 

For  a  moment  he  paused,  his  hand  raised  to  his 
forehead,  essentially,  Roland  thought,  the  gesture  of 
a  bureaucrat. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  have  it,"  said  M.  Rocheville:  "you  will 


212  ROLAND  WHATELY 

come  back  with  me  to  some  friends  of  mine  that  live 
here  and  we  will  arrange  it." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Roland,  "if  that  is  so,  will  you 
not  do  me  the  honor  first  of  sitting  at  my  table  while 
I  finish  my  meal  and  sharing  a  bottle  of  wine  with 
me?" 

M.  Rocheville  had  already  drunk  a  full  bottle  of 
champagne,  but  he  had  lived  on  perquisites  for  so  long 
that  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  accepting 
any  offer  that  put  him  under  no  pecuniary  obligation. 
And,  besides,  this  was  a  confoundedly  pleasant  young 
man,  who  had  saved  him  from  an  undignified  situa- 
tion, and  in  whose  company  he  would  no  doubt  pass 
agreeably  a  couple  of  hours. 

"I  should  be  delighted,"  he  said ;  "and  do  you  know 
my  name?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Roland. 

With  a  slightly  diffident  flourish  M.  Rocheville 
handed  his  card  to  his  young  companion.  It  was  for 
this  moment  that  Roland  had  arranged  his  dramatic 
sequence.  He  examined  the  card  carefully,  then 
looked  up  with  a  surprised,  half-modest,  half-excited 
expression  on  his  face. 

"You  aren't — you  aren't  the  Monsieur  Rocheville?" 

A  slow  smile  spread  itself  over  the  ample  features 
of  the  bureaucrat.  It  was  a  long  time  since  his  vanity 
had  been  so  delicately  tickled,  and  after  the  insults  he 
had  received  from  the  waiter  this  recognition  of  his 
value  was  very  pleasant. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  I  am." 

"The  Monsieur  Rocheville  who  manages  the  Ord- 
nance administration?"  Roland  persisted. 

It  was  a  sweetly  sugared  pill.  To  think  that  this 
young  foreigner  should  know  all  about  him.  He,  him- 
self, was  perhaps  more  important  than  he  had  been 


SUCCESS  213 

led  to  think — a  prophet  in  his  own  country;  but 
abroad,  in  England,  they  estimated  truly  the  value  of 
his  services.  He  was  inclined  to  agree  with  them ;  too 
much  praise  was  given  to  the  Generals  and  Command- 
ers of  Army  Corps.  He  always  experienced  a  slight 
impatience  when  he  heard  eulogies  of  the  exploits  of 
Malplaquet  and  Marshal  Ney  and  Turin.  They  had 
done  the  spectacular  work.  The  light  of  popular  ap- 
proval had  to  be  focused  somewhere,  but  that  in  it- 
self proved  nothing.  Mankind  was  an  ass.  Was  not 
authority  delegated?  Was  not  the  private  soldier 
less  valuable  than  the  colonel?  Was  not  the  colonel 
less  valuable  than  the  general?  In  the  same  way 
might  not  the  general  be  less  valuable  than  the  or- 
ganization which  provided  him  with  food,  with  can- 
nons, with  rifles,  with  ammunition,  and,  as  far  as  that 
went,  with  his  army  too?  The  farther  one  was  from 
the  firing  line  the  more  important  one  became.  The 
organization,  was  it  not  himself?  A  sound  line  of 
argument.  And  he  sat  back  contentedly  in  the  chair 
that  Roland  offered  him  and  lifted  the  glass  that 
Roland  had  filled  for  him. 

He  raised  it  to  the  light,  then  gently,  very  gently 
advanced  his  lips  to  it.  He  rolled  the  rich,  heavy 
Volnay  on  his  tongue.  It  was  good.  A  little  shudder 
ran  through  his  body.  The  wine  had  warmed  him. 
He  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled.  It  was  good  to 
be  appreciated.  And  Roland  in  this  respect  accom- 
modated him  to  the  full.  By  the  time  Roland  had 
finished  his  dinner  the  old  man  was  in  a  state  of 
maudlin  self-pity  and  self-complacency.  "I  am  not 
understood" ;  that  was  the  burden  of  his  complaint. 

And  then,  very  carefully,  very  gently,  Roland  in- 
troduced his  own  subject — the  sale  of  varnish.  Mon- 
sieur Rocheville  lamented  the  inferiority  of  the  Bel- 


214  ROLAND  WHATELY 

gian  species.  It  would  not  polish  and  it  was  so  dear. 
But  what  would  you!  The  Belgians  were  interested 
only  in  husbandry  and  food  and  wantonness.  Mon- 
sieur Rocheville's  eyes  glistened  as  he  brought  out  the 
word,  and  in  another  minute  Roland  would  have  been 
forced  to  attend  to  a  recital  of  the  Rocheville  enter- 
prises in  the  lists  of  gallantry;  this,  however,  he 
evaded.  If  varnish  in  Belgium  was  so  dear,  why  did 
he  not  send  for  it  elsewhere — to  Germany,  or  France, 
or  Italy?  He  had  heard  there  was  very  good  varnish 
to  be  obtained  in  Italy.  And  when  M.  Rocheville 
advanced  the  theory  that  one  should  encourage  na- 
tional industries,  Roland  persuaded  him  that  there 
was  nothing  that  could  better  encourage  the  Belgian 
varnish  industry  than  a  removal  of  the  Government's 
patronage. 

"If  they  think  they  are  certain  of  your  custom  they 
won't  work.  Why  should  they?  Commerce  is  com- 
petition. You  stimulate  competition  and  you'll  find 
your  industry  is  a  hundred  per  cent  more  healthy  in 
five  years'  time  than  it  will  be  if  you  let  it  go  on  on 
the  old  lines:  buying  dear  and  buying  bad."  M. 
Rocheville  agreed.  How  true  it  all  was  and  how 
clearly  this  young  man  understood  it — a  delightful 
young  man,  on  the  whole  the  most  delightful  young 
man  he  had  ever  met.  It  was  a  pity  that  he  insisted 
on  talking  about  varnish  all  the  time.  There  were  so 
many  much  more  interesting  things  that  they  could 
have  found  to  discuss  together.  Still,  it  was  all  very 
warm  and  nice  and  comfortable. 

Looking  back  the  next  day,  and  trying  to  recon- 
struct the  sequence  of  their  conversation,  M.  Roche- 
ville found  it  impossible  to  recall  the  exact  moment 
at  which  Roland  had  stated  his  interest  in  Marston 
&  Marston's  varnish  and  made  his  proposal  that  the 


SUCCESS  215 

Belgian  Government  would  do  well  in  the  future  to 
deal  with  his  firm  direct.  As  far  as  he  could  remem- 
ber, there  had  been  no  such  exact  statement  in  so 
many  words.  They  had  discussed  varnish  from  every 
point  of  view — from  the  international  standpoint, 
from  the  financier's  standpoint;  they  had  even 
touched  on  the  vexed  question  of  retail  business,  and 
also  the  refractory  behavior  of  trade  unions.  They 
had  discussed  varnish  indeed  so  thoroughly  that  it 
was  impossible  to  recall  what  had,  and  what  had  not, 
been  said.  One  thing  alone  M.  Rocheville  could  re- 
call with  painful  distinctness — that  there  had  come  a 
point  in  the  conversation  when  he  had  realized  that 
this  engaging  young  man  was  offering  to  sell  him  a 
very  large  quantity  of  varnish — good  varnish — better 
than  the  Belgian  firms  could  supply  and  at  the  same 
price.  There  was  no  question  of  buyer  or  seller,  no 
bargaining,  no  haggling.  It  was  altogether  different 
from  his  usual  harsh  business  interviews,  that  were  so 
distressing  to  a  man  of  taste.  In  the  same  way  that 
this  young  man  had  rendered  him  assistance  in  that 
trying  altercation  with  the  proprietor,  so  did  he  now 
in  this  matter  of  varnish  lay  his  undoubted  talents 
and  experience  at  his  disposal.  It  was  a  charming, 
friendly  action,  and  the  young  man  was  so  business- 
like. He  had  produced  from  his  pocket  a  printed  con- 
tract in  which  he  had  made  certain  alterations  "be- 
tween friends,"  he  had  called  it,  the  cancellation  of 
two  or  three  small  clauses;  he  had  spread  the  docu- 
ment on  the  table  for  him  to  sign.  He  had  then 
given  M.  Rocheville  a  similar  agreement  signed  by 
his  firm,  and  he  had  then  ordered  another  glass  of 
Benedictine,  and  the  conversation  turned  from  var- 
nish into  more  intimate  channels.  He  could  not  re- 
member about  what  he  had  talked,  but  he  felt  that, 


216  ROLAND  WHATELY 

at  such  an  hour,  their  comments  on  whatever  topic 
they  had  chosen  to  discuss  must  have  been  profound. 
In  describing  the  occasion  to  a  friend  he  waved  a  hand 
vaguely:  "For  two  hours,  he  and  I,  we  talked  of  life." 

Then  they  had  visited  a  M.  Villeneuve  to  settle  the 
matter  of  the  loan.  Roland  had  demurred,  but  M. 
Rocheville  had  insisted.  And  this  part  of  the  evening, 
owing  to  the  sudden  change  of  air,  he  could  recall  more 
clearly.  Monsieur  Villeneuve  was  in  bed  when  they 
arrived  and  did  not  extend  to  him  a  very  cordial  wel- 
come. But  the  loan  was  at  last  successfully  nego- 
tiated, and  Roland  then  discovered  that  in  five  hours' 
time  he  would  have  to  catch  a  train  and  that  it  would 
be  agreeable  to  spend  those  five  hours  in  sleep.  But 
M.  Rocheville  was  very  loath  to  part  with  him.  For 
a  long  while  he  stood  in  the  porch  and,  as  far  as 
Roland  could  discern  any  clear  intention  behind  his 
confused  utterances,  appeared  to  be  suggesting  that 
Roland  should  still  further  trespass  on  the  hospitality 
of  M.  Villeneuve. 

"Then,  perhaps,  if  you  cannot  do  that,"  M.  Roche- 
ville persisted,  "you  will  come  and  spend  a  week-end 
with  me  before  you  return.  You  have  my  card.  I 
have  a  nice  house  in  Brussels,  very  quiet  and  comfort- 
able. I  am  not  married." 

But  Roland  had  reminded  him  that  he  was  very 
busy,  and  that  he  did  not  know  if  he  would  have  time, 
but  that  he  would  certainly  try  to  arrange  a  lunch  at 
their  next  visit. 

"And  in  the  meantime  I  will  see  that  you  get  that 
varnish." 

"Ah!  that  varnish,"  said  M.  Rocheville.  And  ob- 
serving that  he  was  now  standing  alone  in  the  porch, 
with  no  one  to  whom  he  might  address  his  profound 
reflections  upon  the  mortality  of  man,  he  walked 


SUCCESS  217 

slowly  towards  the  gate,  a  little  puzzled  by  Roland's 
conduct  and  by  his  own. 

"A  delightful  young  man,"  he  said,  then  paused 
as  though  he  must  qualify  this  estimate,  but  his  Latin 
cynicism  saved  him.  "Well,  well,"  he  said,  "an  agree- 
able interlude." 

That  was  Roland's  first  triumph,  and  the  other,  if 
less  adroitly  stage-managed,  was  more  audacious,  and 
owed  its  success  to  skill  quite  as  much  as  to  good 
fortune. 

Haupsehr  &  Frohmann  directed  one  of  the  largest 
polish  factories  in  the  south  of  Germany;  they  sup- 
plied, indeed,  practically  the  whole  of  the  Rhineland 
with  their  goods,  and  Roland  had  considered  that  a 
meeting  between  them  might  prove  profitable.  He 
found,  however,  that  it  was  impossible  to  obtain  an 
interview  with  either  Herr  Haupsehr  or  Herr  Froh- 
mann. "They  will  not  look  at  English  goods."  That 
was  what  everyone  told  him,  and  a  carefully  worded 
request  for  an  interview  that  he  addressed  to  the  head 
of  the  firm  was  answered  by  return  of  post  with  a 
bald  statement  that  Herren  Haupsehr  and  Frohmann 
did  not  consider  a  personal  interview  would  further 
the  interests  of  either  Mr.  Roland  Whately,  repre- 
sentative of  Marston  &  Marston,  or  of  themselves. 
And  Roland  was  thus  driven  to  the  reluctant  conclu- 
sion that  his  advisers  were  correct.  If  he  were  to 
effect  an  introduction  it  would  have  to  be  done  by 
guile. 

He  awaited  his  opportunity,  and  the  opportunity 
came  to  him  in  the  passport  office.  He  had  gone  to 
fulfill  some  trifling  by-law  concerning  the  registra- 
tion of  aliens.  For  a  long  time  he  had  sat  in  a 
draughty  corridor,  and  then  for  a  long  time  he  had 
stood  beside  a  desk  while  a  busy  bureaucrat  attended 


218  ROLAND  WHATELY 

to  someone  else's  business,  and  when  at  last  he  had 
succeeded  in  making  his  application  a  bell  rang  in 
the  next  room,  and  without  an  apology  his  inter- 
locutor rose  from  his  chair  and  hurried  to  the  next 
room. 

"How  terrified  they  are  of  their  chiefs,"  Roland 
thought.  He  had  by  now  become  accustomed  to  the 
trepidation  of  officials.  How  typical  was  that  desk 
of  the  words  that  were  written  and  the  sentences 
framed  at  it ;  precise,  firm,  tabulated  and  impersonal : 
the  plain  brass  inkstand,  with  red  and  black  ink- 
pots; the  two  pens,  the  blotter,  the  calendar,  the  let- 
ter files,  the  box  for  memoranda ;  and  the  mind  of  that 
fussy  little  official  was  exactly  like  his  desk,  and,  lean- 
ing over,  Roland  tried  to  see  to  whom  the  letter  on 
the  blotter  was  addressed. 

As  he  did  so,  his  eye  fell  on  a  slip  of  pasteboard 
that  had  been  put  behind  the  inkstand.  It  was  a 
calling  card,  the  calling  card  of  a  Herr  Brumenhein, 
and  on  the  top,  in  handwriting,  was  inscribed  the 
words:  "To  introduce  bearer."  The  name  Brumen- 
hein was  familiar  to  Roland,  though  in  what  connec- 
tion he  could  not  recall.  At  any  rate,  the  fact  that  he 
recollected  the  name  at  all  proved  that  it  was  the 
appendage  of  an  important  person,  and  as  it  was  al- 
ways useful  to  possess  the  means  of  being  introduced 
under  the  auspices  of  a  celebrity,  Roland  picked  up 
the  card  and  placed  it  in  his  pocketbook. 

When  he  returned  to  the  hotel  he  made  inquiries 
about  the  unknown  patron,  and  learned  that  Herr 
Brumenhein  was  a  very  distinguished  Prussian  minis- 
ter, and  one  who  was  honored  by  the  confidence  of 
the  Crown  Prince.  "He  will  be  a  great  man  one  day," 
said  the  hotel  proprietor. 

"As  great  as  Griegenbach?" 


SUCCESS  219 

"Who  knows? — perhaps,  and  it  is  said  the  Crown 
Prince  is  not  too  fond  of  Griegenbach." 

And  then  Roland's  informant  proceeded  to  enlarge 
on  the  exaggerated  opinion  Griegenbach  had  held  of 
his  own  value  since  his  successful  Balkan  diplomacy. 
"He  thinks  he  is  indispensable  and  he  makes  a  great 
mistake.  No  one  is  indispensable.  The  post  of  minis- 
ter is  more  important  than  the  man  who  fills  it." 

Roland,  of  course,  agreed;  he  always  agreed  with 
people.  It  was  thus  that  he  had  earned  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  good  company,  and  at  this  moment,  even 
if  he  had  held  contrary  opinions  as  to  the  relations  of 
the  moment  and  the  man,  he  would  have  been  unable 
to  develop  them  in  an  argument.  He  was  too  busy 
wondering  how  best  he  could  turn  this  discovery  to 
his  advantage.  And  it  was  not  long  before  the  thought 
was  suggested  to  him  that  this  card  might  very  easily 
procure  him  the  desired  interview  with  Herr  Haup- 
sehr.  It  was  a  risky  game  of  course,  but  then  what 
wasn't  risky  in  high  finance?  It  was  quite  possible 
that  Herren  Haupsehr  and  Brumenhein  were  the  old- 
est of  friends,  that  awkward  questions  would  be  asked 
and  his  deceit  discovered.  But,  even  if  it  was,  he 
could,  at  the  worst,  only  be  kicked  downstairs,  and 
that  was  an  indignity  he  could  survive.  It  would  de- 
stroy for  ever  the  possibility  of  any  negotiations  be- 
tween himself  and  the  German  firm,  but  that,  also, 
was  no  serious  drawback,  for,  as  things  were,  there 
seemed  little  enough  prospect  of  opening  an  account. 
He  could  not  see  how  he  would  be  in  any  the  worse 
position  were  he  to  fail — whereas  if  he  brought  it 
off.  ...  It  was  a  dazzling  thought. 

And  so  at  eleven  o'clock  next  morning  Roland  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  entrance  of  Herr  Haupsehr's 
office.  He  asked  no  questions ;  he  made  no  respectful 


220  ROLAND  WHATELY 

inquiry  as  to  whether  at  that  moment  Herr  Haupsehr 
was,  or  was  not,  engaged.  He  assumed  that  whatever 
occupied  that  gentleman's  attention  would  be  in- 
stantly removed  on  the  announcement  that  a  friend 
of  Herr  Brumenhein's  was  in  the  building.  Roland 
said  nothing.  He  flourished  his  card  in  the  face  of 
the  young  lady  who  stood  behind  the  door  marked 
"Inquiries." 

"You  wish  to  see  Herr  Haupsehr?" 

Roland  bowed,  and  the  young  lady  disappeared. 
She  returned  within  a  minute. 

"If  you  will  please  to  follow  me,  sir." 

He  was  conducted  through  the  counting-house  and 
into  the  main  corridor,  up  a  flight  of  stairs,  along  an- 
other corridor,  till  they  reached  a  door  marked  "Pri- 
vate," before  which  the  young  lady  stopped.  Roland 
made  an  interrogatory  gesture  of  the  hand  toward  it. 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  she  said. 

Roland  did  not  knock  at  the  door.  He  turned  the 
handle  and  entered  the  room  with  the  gracious  con- 
descension of  a  general  who  is  forced  to  visit  a  com- 
pany office.  It  was  a  large  room,  with  a  warm  fire  and 
easy  chairs  and  an  old  oak  desk.  But  Herr  Haupsehr 
was  not  sitting  at  his  desk ;  he  had  advanced  into  the 
center  of  the  room,  where  he  stood  rubbing  his  hands 
one  against  the  other.  Some  men  reach  a  high  posi- 
tion through  truculence,  others  through  subservience, 
and  Herr  Haupsehr  belonged  to  the  second  class.  He 
was  a  little  man  with  a  bald  head  and  with  heavy 
pouches  underneath  his  eyes.  He  fidgeted  nervously, 
and  it  was  hard  to  recognize  in  this  obsequious  figure 
the  dictator  of  that  letter  of  stern  refusal. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  are  a  friend  of  Herr  Brumen- 
hein?"  In  the  eyes  of  Herr  Haupsehr  had  appeared 
annoyance  and  a  slight  distrust  at  the  sight  of  so 


SUCCESS  221 

young  a  visitor,  but  the  sound  of  the  magic  name  re- 
called him  to  servility. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "yes ;  and  what  is  it  that  I  may 
have  the  honor  to  do  for  a  friend  of  Herr 
Brumenhein?" 

Roland  made  no  immediate  reply.  He  drew  off  his 
gloves  slowly,  finger  by  finger,  and  placed  them  in  the 
pockets  of  his  great-coat,  which  garment  he  then  pro- 
ceeded to  remove  and  lay  across  the  back  of  one  of  the 
comfortable,  deep  arm-chairs.  He  then  took  out  his 
pocket-book,  abstracted  from  it  a  card  and  handed  it 
to  Herr  Haupsehr.  So  far  he  had  not  spoken  a  word. 
Herr  Haupsehr  examined  the  card  carefully,  raising 
it  towards  the  light,  for  he  was  shortsighted,  and  found 
the  unusual  English  lettering  trying  to  his  eyes.  He 
read  out  the  words  slowly:  "Mr.  Roland  Whately, 
Marston  &  Marston,  Ltd."  He  stretched  his  head 
backwards,  so  that  his  gaze  was  directed  towards  the 
ceiling.  "Mr.  Roland  Whately,  Marston  &  Marston, 
Ltd.  .  .  ."  the  name  was  familiar,  but  how  and  in 
what  connection?  There  were  so  many  names.  He 
shook  his  head.  He  could  not  remember,  but  it  did 
not  matter.  Roland  had  watched  him  anxiously;  he 
had  mistrusted  that  gaze  towards  the  ceiling,  and  it 
was  a  big  relief  when  Herr  Haupsehr  stretched  out 
his  hand  and  indicated  one  of  the  large  arm-chairs — 
"And  what  is  it  that  I  can  do  for  you?" 

Roland  then  began  to  outline  the  scheme  that  had 
suggested  itself  to  him.  The  scheme  was  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  German  as  well  as  to  himself.  Haup- 
sehr &  Frohmann  were  the  biggest  dealers  in  polish 
in  South  Germany.  That  was  granted.  But  there 
were  rivals,  very  dangerous  rivals,  the  more  danger- 
ous because  they  were  specialists,  each  of  them,  in 
one  particular  line  of  polish,  and  a  specialist  was 


222  ROLAND  WHATELY 

always  better,  if  more  expensive,  than  a  general 
dealer.  Now  what  Roland  suggested  was  that  Haup- 
sehr  should  devote  his  attention  solely  to  metal  pol- 
ish, should  become  specialists  in  a  large  sense,  and 
that  he  should  rely  for  the  varnish  solely  on  Marston 
&  Marston. 

"Don't  worry  about  varnish,"  Roland  said:  "we'll 
let  you  have  it  a  lot  cheaper  than  these  rivals  of  yours 
can  produce  it  at.  There  won't  be  much  actual  profit 
in  it  for  you,  not  directly,  but  it  will  allow  you  to  put 
all  your  capital  into  the  metal  polish  and,  by  smash- 
ing your  rivals,  it'll  leave  you  with  a  clear  market." 

The  German  considered  the  plan.  It  was  a  good 
one,  he  could  see  its  advantages.  He  would  be  trad- 
ing, of  course,  with  a  nation  for  which  he  had  no 
great  affection,  but,  even  so,  Herr  Brumenhein  ap- 
parently thought  well  of  it. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  thought  it  a  capital  idea,"  said  Roland. 
"He's  most  anxious  to  see  trade  alliance  between 
Great  Britain  and  Germany.  He's  so  afraid  there 
may  be  ill-feeling.  I  told  him  that  that  was,  of 
course,  absurd,  but  still— 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Herr  Haupsehr,  "I  see,  of  course; 
but  there  are  difficulties,  grave  difficulties." 

Roland  could  see  that  he  was  beginning  to  waver, 
that  he  was  anxious  to  postpone  his  decision,  and  that 
would,  of  course,  be  fatal.  Roland  had  learned  early 
that  when  a  man  says  to  you:  "Look  here,  I  can't 
decide  now,  but  I'll  write  and  let  you  know  in  a  day 
or  two,"  he  has  already  decided  against  you.  And  so 
Roland  played  Herr  Brumenhein  for  all  he  was  worth. 
Having  discovered  that  Herr  Haupsehr  had  never  met 
the  great  man,  Roland  felt  himself  at  liberty  to  tell 
his  story  as  amply  as  possible. 

"But  you  should  meet  him,"  he  said;   "a  most 


SUCCESS  223 

charming  companion.  He  comes  over  and  stays  with 
us  nearly  every  summer." 

"Really!    Every  summer?" 

"Oh,  yes,  nearly  always.  And  he's  the  coming 
man,  of  course.  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  Griegenbach's 
day  is  done." 

Herr  Haupsehr  affected  surprise.  He  respected 
every  minister  till  he  was  out  of  office. 

"Oh,  yes,  not  a  doubt  of  it.  He  thinks  he's  more 
important  than  his  job — a  big  mistake.  A  minister's 
post  is  more  important  than  the  man  who  fills  it." 

With  that  Herr  Haupsehr  agreed.  Himself  had  re- 
vered authority  all  his  life.  This  young  man  showed 
considerable  sagacity.  The  job  was  bigger,  always 
bigger,  than  the  man. 

"Yes,  he's  the  coming  man,"  Roland  went  on;  "we 
can  see  it  more  clearly  over  in  England  perhaps  than 
you  can  over  here.  If  I  were  a  German  I  would  back 
Herr  Brumenhein  with  every  bit  of  influence  I 
possessed." 

And,  indeed,  so  admirably  did  he  present  the  future 
greatness  of  Herr  Brumenhein  that  Herr  Haupsehr 
got  the  impression  that  he  had  only  to  agree  to  these 
varnish  proposals  to  be  offered  an  important  post  in 
the  ministry.  It  was  not  stated  in  so  many  words, 
but  that  was  the  suggestion.  And,  in  the  end,  pre- 
liminary arrangements  were  drawn  up  and  a  contract 
signed.  Herr  Haupsehr  showed  Roland  to  the  door 
with  intense  civility. 

"And  I  was  wondering,"  he  said,  "do  you  think  it 
would  be  altogether  wise  if  I  were  to  write  personally 
to  Herr  Brumenhein  and  tell  him  that  I  have  met  you 
and  agreed  to  your  plan?  Would  it  be  wise?"  And 
he  stood  nervously  fidgeting  from  one  foot  to  the 
other — the  eternal  sycophant. 


224  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Roland  scratched  his  chin  thoughtfully.  Then, 
after  a  moment's  deliberation: 

"No,"  he  said.  "On  the  whole,  no.  I  don't  think 
it  would  be  wise.  Heir  Brumenhein  is  very  busy.  I 
think  it  would  be  better  to  wait  till  he  visits  us  again 
in  England  and  I  shall  tell  him— 

"You  will  tell  him  all  about  me  and  my  willing- 
ness, yes?" 

"Of  course,  of  course." 

"You  are  too  kind,  sir;  too  kind." 

"Aufwiedersehn." 

"Aufwiedersehn." 

Hands  were  shaken,  the  door  closed,  and  Roland 
was  in  the  passage,  the  contract  safe  in  his  breast 
pocket. 

With  two  such  feats  accomplished  Roland  should 
certainly  have  been  returning  home  with  a  light  heart. 
He  would  be  praised  and  made  much  of.  For  at  least 
a  fortnight  conversation  would  center  round  his  ex- 
ploits. His  return  was  that  of  a  general  entering  his 
city  after  a  successful  battle — a  Roman  triumph. 
But  for  all  that  he  was  dispirited.  On  his  journey  out 
he  had  experienced  the  exhilaration  of  freedom,  and 
on  his  return  he  was  obsessed  by  the  gloom  of  im- 
pending captivity.  To  what,  after  all,  was  he  coming 
back? — worries,  responsibilities,  the  continual  clash 
of  temperaments.  How  fine  had  been  the  independ- 
ent life  of  vagabondage  that  he  had  just  left,  where 
he  could  do  what  he  liked,  go  where  he  liked,  be  bound 
to  no  one.  There  had  been  a  time  when  the  sights 
and  noises  of  London  had  been  inexpressibly  dear  to 
him.  His  heart  had  beaten  fast  with  rapture  on  his 
return  from  Fernhurst,  when  he  had  watched  the 
green  fields  vanish  beneath  that  sable  shroud  of  roofs 
and  chimney-stacks.  But  now  there  was  no  magic 


SUCCESS  225 

for  him  in  the  great  city  through  which  he  was  being 
so  swiftly  driven.  Autumn  had  passed  to  winter ;  the 
plane-trees  were  bare;  dusk  was  falling;  the  lamp- 
lighter had  begun  his  rounds.  For  many  it  was  a 
moment  of  hushed  wonderment,  of  peace  and  bene- 
diction, but  Roland  stirred  irritably  in  the  corner  of 
his  cab,  and  there  was  no  pleasure  for  him  in  the 
effusive  welcome  his  mother  accorded  him.  He  did 
his  best  to  respond  to  it,  but  it  was  a  failure,  and  she 
noticed  it. 

"What's  the  matter,  darling?  Wasn't  it  a  success? 
Didn't  you  do  well  over  there?" 

And  behind  her  evident  anxiety  Roland  detected, 
or  fancied  that  he  could  detect,  the  suggestion  of  a 
hope  that  he  had  not  done  so  well  as  he  had  expected 
to  do. 

"She  would  like  to  have  comforted  me,"  he  thought. 
"Her  husband  has  been  a  failure;  he  has  had  to  de- 
pend upon  her  and  so  she  has  kept  his  love.  She 
would  like  me  to  be  the  same."  And  this  attitude, 
although  he  could  understand  it,  exasperated  him. 
He  was  aware  that  through  his  new  friends  he  had 
become  alienated  from  her,  that  she  must  be  lonely 
now.  But  what  would  you?  Life  went  that  way. 

They  had  tea  together,  and  though  Roland  spoke 
amusingly  and  with  animation  about  his  experiences 
abroad,  their  talk  was  not  intimate  as  it  had  been. 
There  was  nothing  said  behind  and  apart  from  their 
actual  words,  and  Mrs.  Whately  imagined  that  he  was 
impatient  to  see  April. 

As  soon  as  they  had  finished  tea  she  suggested  that 
he  should  go  round  to  her. 

"I'm  sure  you  must  be  longing  to  see  her." 

And  when  he  had  gone,  she  sat  for  a  little  while  in 
front  of  the  unwashed  tea  things,  thinking  how  hard 


226  ROLAND  WHATELY 

it  was  that  a  mother  should  have  to  yield  her  son  to 
another  woman. 

She  need  not  have.  Roland,  at  the  moment  when 
she  was  thinking  of  him  with  melancholy  regret,  was 
far  from  being  "dissolved  in  pleasure  and  soft  re- 
pose." He  was  sitting,  as  he  had  so  often  sat  before, 
on  the  chair  beside  the  window-seat,  in  which  April 
was  forlornly  curled,  while  Mrs.  Curtis  expressed,  to 
complete  his  depression,  her  opinion  on  the  economic 
situation  in  Europe.  Soon  she  abandoned  these  mat- 
ters of  high  finance  and  reverted  to  simple  matters  of 
to-day — namely,  her  son  and  her  daughter.  It  was 
"dear  April"  and  "dear  Arthur";  and  Roland  was  re- 
minded vividly  of  a  bawdy  house  in  Brussels  and  the 
old  woman  who  had  sat  beside  the  fire,  exhibiting  her 
wares.  That  was  what  Mrs.  Curtis  was  at  heart.  He 
could  see  her  two  thousand  years  earlier  administer- 
ing in  some  previous  existence  to  the  lusts  of  Roman 
soldiery:  "Yes,  a  dear  girl,  Flavia;  and  Julia,  she's 
nice;  and  if  you  like  them  plump  Portia's  a  dear, 
sweet  girl — so  loving.  Dacius  Cassius  said  to  me 
only  yesterday  .  .  ."  Yes,  that  was  what  she  was, 
and  beneath  her  sentimentality  how  cold,  how  hard, 
how  merciless,  like  that  woman  in  Brussels  who  had 
taken  eighty  per  cent  of  the  girls'  money.  He  was 
continuing  to  draw  comparisons  with  a  vindictive 
pleasure  when  he  observed  that  she  was  collecting 
her  knitting  preparatory  to  a  move. 

"But  I  know  you  two'll  want  to  be  together.  I 
won't  be  a  troublesome  chaperon,"  she  was  saying; 
"I'll  get  out  of  your  way.  I  expect  you've  lots  to  say 
to  each  other." 

And  before  Roland  quite  knew  what  was  happening 
he  was  alone  with  April.  He  turned  towards  her,  and 
as  her  eyes  met  his  she  blushed  a  little  and  smiled,  a 


SUCCESS  227 

shy,  wavering  smile  that  said:  "I  am  here;  take  me 
if  you  want  me,  I  am  yours" — a  smile  that  would 
have  been  to  anyone  else  indescribably  beautiful,  but 
that  to  Roland,  at  that  moment,  appeared  childish 
and  absurd.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say.  He  was 
in  no  mood  for  protestations  and  endearments.  He 
could  not  act  a  lie.  There  was  an  embarrassing  pause. 
April  turned  her  face  away  from  him.  He  said  noth- 
ing, he  did  nothing.  And  then  very  distinctly,  very 
slowly,  like  a  child  repeating  a  lesson: 

"Did  you  have  a  good  crossing?"  The  tension  was 
broken;  he  began  to  talk  quickly,  eagerly,  inconse- 
quently — anything  to  prevent  another  such  moment. 
And  then  Mrs.  Curtis  came  back  and  the  conversation 
was  monopolized,  till  Roland  reminded  her  that  it 
was  seven  o'clock  and  that  he  would  have  to  be  get- 
ting back. 

"I  haven't  seen  my  father  yet." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  We  mustn't  keep  him,  must 
we,  April?" 

Roland  took  his  leave,  but  April  did  not,  as  was 
usual,  follow  him  to  the  door.  She  remained  huddled 
in  the  window-seat,  and  did  not  even  turn  her  head 
in  his  direction.  She  was  angry  with  him,  and  no 
doubt  with  good  cause,  he  reflected ;  but  Mrs.  Curtis 
had  gone  so  suddenly ;  he  had  been  taken  off  his  guard. 
Heavens!  but  what  a  home-coming! 

He  felt  happier  though  next  morning  when  he 
walked  into  the  office  of  Marston  &  Marston.  Every- 
one was  pleased  to  see  him  back;  the  girls  in  the 
counting-house  smiled  at  him.  He  was  informed  by 
the  lift-boy  that  his  cricket  had  been  sadly  missed 
during  the  latter  half  of  the  season,  and  Mr.  Stevens 
literally  leaped  from  his  desk  to  shake  him  by  the 
hand.  It  was  ripping  to  see  Gerald  again,  to  come 


228  ROLAND  WHATELY 

into  his  room  and  hear  that  quietly  drawled:  "Well, 
old  son,"  and  resume,  as  he  had  left  it,  their  old 
friendship. 

"The  governor's  awfully  pleased  with  you,"  said 
Gerald,  "never  seen  the  old  boy  so  excited  over  any- 
thing before.  He's  been  talking  about  nothing  else. 
He  keeps  on  saying:  The  fellow  who  can  make  fifty 
runs  in  half  an  hour  can  run  a  business.'  But  I'm 
damned  if  I  know  how  you  did  it.  I've  gone  over 
there  with  carefully  prepared  introductions  and  had  a 
chat  with  a  few  johnnies,  but  you  seem  to  have  gone 
pirating  about,  holding  up  Government  officials  and 
boosting  into  financiers'  offices.  How's  it  done?" 

Roland  laughed. 

"That's  my  secret." 

"You  are  welcome  to  it,"  said  Gerald;  "and  tell 
me,  did  you  have  any  real  adventures?" 

"One  or  two." 

"Where?    Good  ones?" 

"Not  bad.    Brussels,  the  usual  place." 

Gerald  shook  his  head.  "You  should  give  it  up,  old 
son,  it  isn't  worth  it." 

Roland  laughed.  "I  like  your  talking!  Why,  I 
never  knew  such  a  fellow  as  you  for  women." 

"For  women,  yes,  but  not  professionals." 

"That's  much  worse." 

But  Gerald  shook  his  head.  "No,  it  isn't,  my  son. 
No  man  ever  got  any  good  yet  out  of  going  with 
professionals." 

But  before  Roland  had  had  time  to  elucidate  this 
riddle  Mr.  Marston  had  entered  the  room.  He  took 
Roland's  hand  in  his  and  shook  it  heartily. 

"This  is  splendid,  my  dear  fellow,  splendid!  They 
told  me  you'd  come  back  and  I  knew  where  I  should 
find  you.  It's  good  to  have  you  back,  and  you've  done 


SUCCESS  229 

splendidly — far  better,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  than 
any  of  us  expected.  We  all  looked  on  this  as  a  sort  of 
trial.  But,  my  word,  you've  brought  it  off." 

"I've  been  telling  him,  father,  that  you've  been 
going  round  London  saying  that  the  man  who  can 
make  fifty  runs  in  half  an  hour  is  sure  to  be  able  to 
run  a  business." 

"And  it's  true,"  said  Mr.  Marston,  "it's  true.  If  a 
man's  got  the  pluck  to  face  a  ticklish  situation  at 
cricket,  he  can  do  anything.  Business  is  only  bluff, 
like  cricket,  making  the  bowler  think  you're  set  when 
you're  really  expecting  every  ball  will  be  your  last. 
If  I've  said  it  to  Gerald  once  I've  said  it  fifty  times. 
'My  boy/  I've  said,  'if  you  don't  do  another  stroke  of 
work  in  your  life  you'll  be  worth  a  salary  of  five  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year  for  having  brought  young 
Whately  to  us.'  Now  come  along  and  let's  go  over 
those  accounts." 

They  spent  over  an  hour  together,  and  at  the  end 
of  it  Mr.  Marston  rose  from  his  desk  perfectly 
satisfied. 

"As  far  as  I  can  see  you  haven't  made  a  slip.  It's 
first  class  absolutely.  Now,  you  run  along  to  Perkins 
and  settle  up  your  personal  accounts  with  him,  and 
then  we'll  go  out  and  have  lunch  somewhere  together, 
the  three  of  us,  and  you  can  spend  the  afternoon  at 
home.  I  daresay  your  girl's  been  missing  you." 

"I  haven't  got  a  girl,  sir." 

"What !  a  young  fellow  like  you  not  got  a  girl !  We 
shall  have  to  see  about  that.  Why,  at  your  age  I 
seem  to  remember  .  .  ."  And  the  old  man  winked  his 
eye  and  chuckled  gayly. 

Perkins  received  Roland  with  considerable  polite- 
ness, mingled  for  the  first  time  with  respect,  also, 
Roland  suspected,  with  a  more  deep  dislike. 


230  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Well,  so  you're  back,  are  you?  And  they  all  tell 
me  you've  been  doing  great  things — interviewing 
Government  officials." 

"I've  had  a  bit  of  luck." 

"Useful  luck?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"And  now  you  want  me  to  have  a  look  at  the 
accounts?" 

"That's  it." 

"Right;  bring  them  along." 

Roland  laid  out  his  personal  accounts,  his  hotel 
bills,  his  railway  fares,  his  entertaining  expenses. 

"And,  as  far  as  I  can  see,"  he  said,  "there's  a  bal- 
ance of  about  thirteen  pounds  in  your  favor." 

"We'll  have  a  look  and  see,"  said  Mr.  Perkins,  and 
he  began  to  scrutinize  the  accounts  carefully,  adding 
up  every  bill,  and  checking  the  amount  of  the  German 
balance-sheet.  Roland  had  taken  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  over  these  accounts.  He  would  not  have 
minded  making  a  few  slips  in  the  figures  he  had 
placed  before  Mr.  Marston,  but  he  was  desperately 
anxious  to  present  no  weak  spots  to  Perkins. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Perkins,  "these  seem  to  be  all  right, 
and  there's  a  balance,  as  you  say,  of  thirteen  pounds, 
five  and  threepence." 

"Right,"  said  Roland,  and  began  to  count  out  the 
money. 

"Yes,  but  as  far  as  I  can  see,  there  aren't  any — 
well,  how  shall  I  put  it? — any  special  expense  ac- 
counts here.  I  usually  let  one  or  two  of  them  through 
all  right." 

"No,  I've  stated  what  all  my  charges  are  for." 

"Well,  then,  aren't  there  one  or  two  little  things? 
Usually  you  young  gentlemen  like  to  have  a  few 
extras  put  down."  And  his  face,  that  was  turned  to 


SUCCESS  231 

Roland's,  assumed  a  cunning,  knowing  smile,  an  un- 
pleasant smile,  the  smile  of  a  man  in  a  subservient 
position  who  enjoys  the  privilege  of  being  able  to 
confer  a  favor  on  his  superior,  and  at  the  same  time 
despises  his  superior  for  asking  it.  Roland  had  known 
that  it  was  in  exactly  this  way  that  Perkins  would 
offer  to  slip  through  a  special  expense  account.  He 
knew  that  by  accepting  this  offer  he  would  place 
himself  eternally  in  Perkins's  debt.  That,  as  in 
Gerald's  case,  there  would  be  between  them  an  ac- 
knowledged confederacy.  This  he  would  never  have. 
He  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  incurred  very  few  of  the 
special  expenses  to  which  Perkins  referred.  He  had 
worked  hard ;  he  had  been  alone.  Solitary  indulgence 
is  never  very  exciting;  one  wants  companionship,  as 
in  everything,  and  so  he  had  confined  his  excesses  to 
a  couple  of  visits  to  a  discreet  establishment  in 
Brussels,  of  which  he  had  decided  to  defray  the  cost 
himself. 

He  was  able,  therefore,  to  meet  Perkins's  leer  with  a 
look  of  puzzled  interrogation. 

"I  don't  quite  understand,  Mr.  Perkins.  I  think 
you've  all  my  accounts  there,  and  I  owe  you  thirteen 
pounds,  five  shillings  and  threepence;  perhaps  you'll 
give  me  a  receipt." 

In  the  look  that  they  exchanged  as  Mr.  Perkins 
respectfully  handed  Roland  the  receipt,  each  recog- 
nized the  beginning  of  a  long  antagonism. 

"Thanks  very  much,  Mr.  Perkins." 

Roland  walked  out  of  the  room  jauntily.  He  had 
had  the  best  of  the  first  skirmish. 

This  victory  put  him  on  excellent  terms  with  him- 
self, and,  later,  a  bottle  of  excellent  Burgundy  at 
lunch  wooed  him  to  so  kindly  a  sympathy  for  his 
fellow-beings  that  any  leader  of  advanced  political 


232  ROLAND  WHATELY 

opinions  would  have  found  him  an  easy  victim  to  any 
theory  of  world-brotherhood.  As,  however,  no  har- 
binger of  the  new  world  accosted  him  on  his  way  from 
the  City  to  Charing  Cross  Station,  Roland  was  free 
to  focus  his  entire  sympathy  upon  the  forlorn  figure 
of  April.  He  thought  of  her  suddenly  just  outside 
Terry's  Theater,  and  the  remembrance  of  his  behavior 
to  her  on  the  night  before  caused  him  to  collide  vio- 
lently with  an  elderly  gentleman  who  was  walking  in 
the  opposite  direction.  But  he  did  not  stop  to  apolo- 
gize; his  sentimentality  held  a  minor  to  his  guilt. 
What  a  selfish  beast  he  had  been.  How  miserable  he 
must  have  made  her.  She  must  have  so  looked  for- 
ward to  his  return.  He  had  hardly  written  to  her 
while  he  had  been  away.  Poor  little  April,  so  sweet, 
so  gentle.  A  wave  of  tenderness  for  her  consumed 
him.  They  had  shared  so  much  together;  he  had 
confided  in  her  his  hopes  and  his  ambitions.  He 
worked  himself  into  a  temper  of  self-abasement.  He 
must  go  to  her  at  once  and  beg  forgiveness. 

He  found  her  sitting  in  the  arm-chair  before  the 
fire.  She  raised  her  eyes  in  mild  amazement,  sur- 
prised that  he  should  visit  her  at  such  a  time.  She 
did  not  know  how  she  should  comport  herself.  Her 
dignity  told  her  that  she  should  rise  and  receive  him 
coldly,  but  her  instinct  counseled  her  to  remain 
seated  and  hear  what  he  had  to  say.  She  obeyed  her 
instinct.  Roland  flung  his  hat  and  stick  on  the 
cushioned  window-seat  and  precipitated  himself  at 
her  feet.  She  tried  to  push  him  away,  but  his  voice 
murmuring  the  word  "darling"  overmastered  her,  and 
she  let  him  put  his  arms  round  her  and  draw  her  head 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"I  feel  such  a  beast,  April,  such  a  beast.  All  the 
day  I  have  been  cursing  myself  and  wondering  what 


SUCCESS  233 

on  earth  possessed  me.  I  don't  know  what  it  was. 
But  all  the  time  I've  been  away  I've  been  so  looking 
forward  to  seeing  you  again.  When  I  was  all  alone 
and  unhappy  I  said  to  myself:  'Never  mind,  April's 
waiting,'  and  I  thought  how  wonderful  to  see  you 

again,  and  then Oh,  I  don't  know,  but  when  I 

came  here  last  night  and  found  your  mother  here — I 
don't  know!  All  the  time  I  was  dying  to  speak  to 
you,  and  she  would  go  on  talking,  and  I  got  more 
and  more  annoyed.  And  then,  I  don't  know  how  it 
happened,  but  I  found  myself  getting  angry  with  you 
because  of  your  mother." 

"But  you  mustn't,  Roland,  really  you  mustn't. 
You  shouldn't  speak  of  mother  like  that;  you  know 
how  good  she's  been  to  us." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  it,  of  course  I  do.  But  can't  you 
see  what  it  was  like  last  night  for  me  coming  back  to 
you,  and  wanting  you,  and  then  to  hear  only  your 
mother;  and  by  the  time  she  left  us  alone  I  had  got 
so  bad  tempered  that " 

"Yes,  you  weren't  very  nice,  were  you?" 

And  he  had  begun  to  pour  out  a  further  torrent  of 
explanation  when  he  saw  that  a  sly,  mischievous  smile 
was  playing  round  the  corners  of  her  mouth  and  that 
she  was  no  longer  angry. 

"Then  you'll  forgive  me?"  he  said. 

"But  I  don't  know  about  that." 

"Oh,  but  you  have,  haven't  you?  I  know  you 
have." 

She  began  to  remonstrate,  to  say  that  she  had  not 
forgiven  him,  that  he  had  been  most  unkind  to  her, 
but  she  made  no  resistance  when  his  hand  slipped 
slowly  round  her  neck  and  turned  her  face  to  his. 
And  as  he  raised  it,  she  pouted  ever  so  slightly  her 
lips  toward  those  that  sank  to  meet  them.  As  their 


234  ROLAND  WHATELY 

mouths  met  she  passed  one  hand  behind  his  head  and 
pressed  it  down  to  her.  It  was  a  long  embrace,  and 
when  she  drew  back  from  it,  the  luster  of  her  eyes  had 
grown  dimmed  and  misty. 

"You've  never  kissed  me  like  that  before,"  she  said. 

"Perhaps  I've  never  really  loved  you  before." 

"Oh,  but  I  should  hate  to  think  that." 

"But  why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'm  silly,  but  if  you  only  love 
me  now,  then  before — oh,  it  doesn't  matter,  you  love 
me  now,  don't  you?" 

And  he  answered  her  in  the  only  possible  way. 

One  hour  they  had  together,  an  hour  of  rich  en- 
chantment. The  blinds  were  drawn,  the  lamp  un- 
lighted ;  she  sat  on  the  floor  with  the  firelight  playing 
over  her,  leaned  back  against  him  while  he  told  her 
of  Bruges  and  its  waterways,  the  proud  boulevards  of 
Brussels,  the  great  cathedral  at  Koln,  the  noble  sweep 
of  the  Rhine  and  the  hills  on  either  side  of  it.  She 
followed  little  of  what  he  said  to  her;  it  was  enough 
for  her,  after  three  long  months,  to  be  soothed  by  his 
presence,  to  hear  his  voice,  to  hold  his  hand  in  hers, 
and  to  feel  from  time  to  time  his  breath  grow  warm 
upon  her  neck  and  cheek  as  he  bent  to  kiss  her.  It 
was  the  tenderest  hour  their  love  had  brought  to 
them. 

But  for  Roland  it  was  followed  by  a  reaction.  He 
felt,  in  a  confused  manner,  that  he  had  been  playing  a 
part,  that  he  had  said  what  was  but  half  true  He 
had  certainly  been  exasperated  by  Mrs.  Curtis's  con- 
versation, but  it  was  her  talk,  the  supreme  futility  of 
her  talk,  that  had  exasperated  him.  It  had  annoyed 
him  in  itself  and  not  as  being  a  barrier  between  him- 
self and  April.  He  had  told  a  lie. 

And  it  was  not  for  the  first  time,  he  reminded  him- 


SUCCESS  235 

self.  Half  lies  had  been  an  essential  part  of  their 
love-making.  At  every  crisis  of  their  relationship  he 
had  tampered  with  the  truth.  He  had  told  her  he  had 
only  made  love  to  Dolly  because  she  had  rejected 
him  that  evening  at  the  ball.  He  had  told  her  that  it 
was  her  belief  in  him  that  had  inspired  his  success 
at  Hogstead.  He  had  mistaken  the  fraction  for  the 
whole.  Were  they  never  to  meet  on  terms  of  common 
honesty?  What  was  their  love  worth  if  it  had  to  live 
on  lies? 

He  returned  home  to  find  the  drawing-room  fire 
almost  out. 

"Will  these  servants  never  do  their  work?"  he 
grumbled. 

That  evening  the  soup  plates  happened  to  be  cold 
and  the  joint  overdone. 

"It  gets  worse  every  day,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
what  that  girl  thinks  she's  paid  for.  She  never  does 
anything  right." 

And  when  he  went  upstairs  to  turn  on  a  bath  he 
discovered  that  all  the  hot  water  had  been  used  in 
washing  up  the  plates.  He  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room  in  a  fury  of  impatience. 

"I  do  wish,  mother,"  he  said,  "that  you'd  explain 
to  Lizzie  that  there's  no  need  for  her  to  wash  herself 
as  well  as  the  plates  in  that  sink  of  hers." 

"And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  grumble  the  whole  time, 
Roland,"  his  mother  retorted.  "Lizzie's  got  a  great 
deal  to  do.  She  has  to  do  the  cooking  as  well  as  the 
housework.  I  think  that,  on  the  whole,  she  manages 
very  well." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  said  Roland,  and  walked 
out  of  the  room. 

Next  morning  he  found  on  his  plate  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Marston,  inviting  him  down  for  the  week-end. 


236  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"It  seems  such  a  long  time  since  that  cricket  week," 
she  wrote,  "and  we  all  want  to  congratulate  you  on 
your  splendid  work.  So  do  come." 

He  handed  the  letter  across  to  his  mother. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  interrogatively. 

"Well,  dear?" 

"Of  course  I  shall  go." 

She  did  not  answer  him,  and  he  read  in  her  silence 
a  disapproval. 

"You  don't  want  me  to,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  mind,  dear.    It's  for  you  to  decide." 

"But  you'd  rather  I  didn't?" 

"Well,  dear,  I  was  only  thinking  that  as  you've 
been  away  from  us  for  three  months,  and  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  mother,  and  what?" 

"Well,  dear,  to  go  away,  the  very  first  week-end." 

"But  you'll  be  seeing  lots  of  me  all  the  week." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  us,  though  of  course  we  like 
to  have  you  here.  It  was  April;  don't  you  think  it 
might  rather  hurt  her  feelings?" 

"Oh,  bother  April!" 

"But,  dear  .  .  ." 

"I  know,  mother,  but  it's  April  this  and  April  that; 
it's  nothing  but  April." 

His  mother  raised  to  him  a  surprised,  grieved  face, 
but  she  made  no  answer,  and  Roland,  standing  be- 
side the  table,  experienced  the  sensation  of  an  anxious 
actor  who  has  finished  his  speech  in  the  middle  of  the 
stage  and  does  not  know  how  to  reach  the  wings. 

"You  see,  mother,"  he  began,  but  she  raised  a  hand 
to  stop  him. 

"No,  dear,  don't  explain :  I  understand." 

He  cursed  himself,  as  he  walked  to  the  bus,  for  his 
ill-temper.  What  a  beast  he  was — first  to  April,  then 
to  his  mother;  the  two  people  for  whom  he  cared  most 


SUCCESS  237 

in  the  world.  What  was  wrong?  Why  was  he  be- 
having like  this?  It  had  not  been  always  so.  At 
school  he  had  had  a  reputation  for  good-naturedness 
— "a  social  lubricant,"  someone  had  called  him — and 
at  Hogstead  he  was  still  the  same,  cheerful,  good- 
humored,  willing  to  do  anything  for  anyone  else.  He 
became  his  old  self  in  the  company  of  Gerald  and  his 
father  and  the  light-hearted,  irresponsible  Muriel. 
It  was  only  at  Hammerton  that  he  was  irritable 
and  quick  to  take  offense.  His  ill-humor  fell  away 
from  him,  however,  the  moment  that  he  reached  the 
office. 

"Well,  old  son,"  said  Gerald,  "and  did  you  get  a 
letter  from  the  mater  this  morning?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you're  coming?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  yet." 

"Oh,  but  of  course  you  are.  They'll  all  be  fear- 
fully annoyed  if  you  don't,  especially  Muriel " 

"Muriel !    Why,  what  did  she  say?" 

"Nothing  particular  as  far  as  I  remember,  but  she 
seemed  frightfully  keen.  She  says  you're  the  only 
one  of  my  friends  she's  any  use  for.  She  finds  them 
too  stuck  up — middle-aged  at  twenty  she  calls  them. 
So  you'll  have  to  come." 

"I  suppose  I  sh'all." 

"Of  course  you  will.  Sit  down  and  write  a  note 
this  minute,  so  that  there's  no  chance  of  your  think- 
ing better." 

When  Roland  returned  home  that  night  his  mother 
made  no  reference  to  the  scene  at  the  breakfast  table. 
They  spoke  at  dinner  of  indifferent  things,  politics 
and  personalities;  but  there  was  a  brooding  atmos- 
phere of  disquiet.  Not  until  nearly  bedtime  did 
Roland  announce  his  intention  of  going  down  to 


238  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Hogstead.    His  mother's  reply  expressed  neither  re- 
proach nor  disappointment. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said;  "well,  I  hope  you'll  enjoy 
yourself." 

And  just  because  her  voice  was  even  and  unchal- 
lenging,  Roland  felt  that  he  had  to  give  some  expla- 
nation. 

"You  see,  mother,  Mr.  Marston  is,  after  all,  my  boss, 
and  these  visits — well,  they're  rather  a  royal  com- 
mand. They'd  be  a  bit  annoyed  if  I  didn't  go." 

"Of  course,  dear,  of  course.  We  only  want  you  to 
do  what  you  think  best." 

But  he  knew  that  she  was  disappointed.  She  was 
right,  too.  He  supposed  he  ought  really  to  have  stayed 
at  home  and  gone  for  a  walk  with  April.  He  felt 
guilty  in  his  attitude  towards  April,  guilty  and,  in 
a  way,  resentful,  resentful  against  these  repeated  de- 
mands on  his  time  and  energy,  against  this  assump- 
tion of  an  unflagging  passion,  an  eternal  intoxication. 
And  yet  he  did  feel  guilty.  Was  he  treating  her  as  a 
boy  ought  to  treat  his  girl?  How  rarely,  for  example, 
had  he  ever  taken  her  anywhere.  Ah,  well,  that  at 
least  he  could  remedy. 

Next  day,  during  his  lunch  hour,  he  went  round  to 
the  box  office  of  the  Adelphi  and  bought  three  stalls 
for  Thursday  night.  He  returned  home  with  the 
happy  air  of  one  that  carries  a  delightful  surprise  in 
his  pocket. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "what  are  you  doing  on  Thurs- 
day night?" 

"Nothing,  dear,  as  far  as  I  know." 

"Well,  would  you  like  to  come  out  somewhere  with 
me?" 

"You  know  I  always  like  to  go  out  anywhere  with 
you." 


SUCCESS  239 

"And  April?" 

"Of  course,  dear." 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  say  to  a  dinner  in  Soho 
and  the  Adelphi  afterwards?" 

"But,  dear — oh,  you  don't  mean  it?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  mother.  I  wanted  to  celebrate  my  re- 
turn, so  I  got  the  three  seats.  I've  booked  the  table, 
and  there  we  are." 

Her  face  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"Oh,  but  you  shouldn't  have,  really  you  shouldn't, 
and  you  don't  want  me." 

"Of  course  we  do,  mother,  and  anyhow  we  could 
hardly  go  alone." 

"And  have  you  told  April?" 

"No,  I'm  just  off  to  tell  her." 

He  bent  down,  kissed  her,  then  straightened  him- 
self and  ran  out  of  the  room.  She  heard  his  foot- 
steps clatter  on  the  stairs,  then  move  about  in  the 
bedroom  above  her,  and  then  once  more  clatter  on  the 
stairs.  She  sighed,  her  eyes  dimming  a  little,  but 
glad,  inexpressibly  glad,  that  he  should  still  need  her 
in  his  happiness. 

Roland  found  April  alone. 

"I've  got  a  surprise  for  you,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"A  box  of  chocolates." 

"Do  you  want  a  box  of  chocolates?" 

"I  should  like  one." 

"Right!  Then  I'll  go  and  get  you  one."  And  he 
turned  towards  the  door,  but  she  ran  after  him  and 
caught  him  by  the  sleeve  of  his  coat. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  she  said;  "come  back!" 

"But  you  said  you  wanted  a  box  of  chocolates." 

"But  I  want  to  know  what  your  surprise  is  first?" 


240  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Well,  then,  have  a  look  in  my  pockets  and  see  if 
you  can  find  it." 

She  put  both  her  hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  and 
quickly,  before  she  knew  what  he  was  doing,  his  arms 
were  round  her,  and  he  had  drawn  her  close  to  him. 
Her  hands  were  prisoners  in  his  pockets  and  she  was 
powerless.  Slowly  he  put  his  face  to  hers  and  kissed 
her. 

"That's  not  fair,"  she  said. 

"It's  very  nice." 

"I  daresay,  but  I  want  to  know  what  your  surprise 
is?" 

For  answer  he  placed  the  envelope  in  her  hand; 
she  looked  puzzled,  but  when  she  had  opened  it  she 
gave  a  little  cry  of  delight. 

"Oh,  Roland,  how  dear  of  you!" 

"Then  you'll  come?" 

"Of  course.  Oh,  Roland,  dear!  It's  years  since  I 
went  to  a  theater.  I  shall  love  it." 

He  was  delighted  with  the  success  of  his  plan.  He 
felt  happy  and  confident.  How  pretty,  how  charm- 
ing April  was;  how  much  he  was  in  love  with  her. 
He  took  her  on  his  knee  and  insisted  on  rearranging 
her  hair. 

"But  you're  only  making  it  worse,  Roland,"  she 
complained. 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not;  I'm  getting  on  splendidly.  You 
just  wait  and  see,"  and  he  continued  to  stroke  her 
hair,  dividing  it  so  that  he  could  kiss  her  neck. 

"It's  in  an  awful  state,"  she  said,  "and  someone  is 
sure  to  come  before  I  can  tidy  it." 

"Don't  you  worry,"  he  said,  drawing  his  fingers 
along  the  curved  roll  of  hair.  And  then  suddenly  it  all 
came  down;  the  long  tresses  fell  in  a  cascade  about 
them,  covering  them  in  a  fine  brown  net. 


SUCCESS  241 

"Oh,  you  beast,  you  beast!"  she  said,  struggling  to 
get  up. 

But  he  held  her  close. 

"Oh,  no;  it's  ripping  like  that.    You  look  lovely." 

"Do  I?" 

"And,  look,  I  can  kiss  you  through  your  hair,"  and 
he  drew  a  thin  curl  across  her  mouth  and  laid  his  upon 
it,  moving  his  lips  slightly  up  and  down  till  he  had 
drawn  the  hair  into  their  mouths  and  their  lips  could 
meet. 

"But  you  did  it  on  purpose,  I'm  sure  you  did.  It 
couldn't  have  happened  like  that  of  its  own,  all  of 
a  sudden." 

"Well,  what  if  it  didn't !    You  look  simply  ripping." 

She  laughed  happily,  hiding  her  face  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"It's  very  wrong  of  you,  though.' 

"What!  wrong  to  make  you  look  pretty!" 

And  she  could  not  refrain  from  kissing  him. 

"What  would  mother  say?" 

"She's  out." 

"But  if  she  came  in?" 

"She  won't." 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  I  shall  have  to  go  and  put 
it  up." 

"No,  please  don't." 

"But  suppose  someone  comes  in?" 

"They  won't.  And  besides,  if  they  did,  they  ought 
to  think  themselves  jolly  lucky;  you  look  simply 
lovely!" 

"Do  I?"  The  words  came  in  a  soft  whisper  from 
lips  almost  touching  his. 

"As  always."  The  hand  that  lay  in  his  pressed 
tightly.  "You'll  stay  like  that,  won't  you?" 

"If  you're  good." 


242  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Darling!" 

He  did  not  tell  her  about  the  dinner.  He  suggested 
that  he  should  call  for  her  at  six,  and  she  was  too 
excited  at  the  time  to  take  into  account  so  material  a 
consideration  as  food.  But  her  eyes  sparkled  with 
pleasure  when  he  took  her  into  the  little  Soho  restau- 
rant where  he  had  booked  a  table.  She  had  never 
been  in  such  a  place  before  and  her  delight  in  the  un- 
familiar room  and  food  was  joy  to  Roland.  For  her 
it  was  a  place  of  mystery  and  enchantment.  She 
asked  him  hurried,  excited  questions:  What  sort  of 
people  came  here?  Did  he  think  the  lady  in  the  cor- 
ner was  an  actress?  Who  had  painted  the  brightly 
colored  fresco?  He  persuaded  her  to  take  half  a  glass 
of  wine;  she  sipped  at  it  in  a  fascinating,  nervous 
manner,  with  little  pecks,  as  though  she  thought  it 
were  going  to  burn  her,  and  between  each  sip  she 
would  smile  at  Roland  over  the  rim  of  the  wine  glass. 
As  she  sat  she  flung  to  left  and  right  quick,  eager 
glances  at  the  waiter,  the  hangings,  the  occupants  of 
the  other  tables.  Her  excitement  charmed  Roland. 
It  was  like  seeing  a  child  play  with  a  new  toy.  In 
a  way,  too,  it  was  an  excitant  to  his  vanity,  a  tribute 
to  his  manhood,  to  his  superior  knowledge  of  the 
world.  And  in  the  theater,  when  the  light  was  turned 
out,  he  sat  close  to  her  and  held  her  hand  tightly  at 
the  moments  of  dramatic  tension ;  and  when  she  mar- 
veled at  the  beauty  of  the  heroine  he  whispered  in 
her  ear:  "Nothing  like  as  pretty  as  you  are!"  And 
Mrs.  Whately,  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  Roland, 
glanced  at  them  from  time  to  time  with  a  kind  indul- 
gence, remembering  her  youth,  and  her  early  love- 
making.  It  was  a  memorably  happy  evening.  When 
Roland  walked  back  with  April  and  kissed  her  good- 
night in  the  doorway  she  said  nothing,  but  her  hand 


SUCCESS  243 

clenched  tightly  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  And  when 
he  returned  home  he  saw  in  his  mother's  eye  an  ex- 
pression of  love  and  gratitude  that  had  not  been  there 
for  a  long  while. 

He  walked  upstairs  in  a  mood  of  deep  contentment. 
After  he  had  undressed  he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the 
open  window,  looking  out  over  the  roofs  and  chim- 
ney stacks  of  London.  Behind  a  few  window  panes 
glowed  the  faint  light  of  a  candle  or  a  lamp,  but  the 
majority  of  the  houses  were  obscured  in  darkness. 
Hammerton  was  asleep.  But  the  confused  murmur 
of  traffic  and  the  faint  red  glow  in  the  sky  reminded 
him  that  the  true  London,  the  London  that  he  loved, 
was  only  now  waking  to  a  night  of  pleasure.  Ah, 
well,  to-morrow  he  would  be  at  Hogstead.  He  flung 
back  his  arms  with  the  proud  relief  of  one  who  has 
fulfilled  his  obligations  and  is  at  liberty  to  take  his 
own  enjoyment. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LILITH  AND  MURIEL 

ROLAND  was  in  the  true  holiday  mood  as  he 
stepped  into  the  afternoon  train  to  Hogstead. 
He  had  before  him  the  prospect  of  sixty  hours  of  real 
happiness.  He  would  be  made  much  of,  he  would  be 
congratulated,  he  would  be  able,  on  occasions,  to  lead 
the  conversation.  It  was  no  small  feat  that  he  had 
accomplished.  He  had  won  the  appreciation  of  a 
family  that  was  satisfied  with  itself  and  was  inclined 
to  regard  its  own  achievements  as  the  summit  of 
human  ability  and  ambition.  It  had  been  simple  in 
comparison  to  make  an  impression  on  April — a  dinner 
in  a  Soho  restaurant.  Muriel  and  Beatrice  would  have 
accepted  such  an  evening  as  a  matter  of  course,  an 
affair  of  everyday  occurrence.  His  heart  beat  quickly 
as  he  thought  of  Beatrice.  Would  she  be  there,  he 
wondered.  Would  she  have  heard  of  his  success? 
What  effect  would  it  have  made  on  her?  She  might 
regard  it  as  much  or  little.  One  never  knew.  Muriel, 
though,  had  been  impressed;  that  he  knew  for  cer- 
tain. It  would  be  great  fun  receiving  her  congratu- 
lations. He  thought  of  her  as  he  had  left  her  four 
months  ago,  a  tousle-headed  Muriel,  a  little  girl  who 
had  charmed  him  with  her  chatter  and  had  been  so 
unexpectedly  petulant  when  he  had  questioned  her 
about  her  aunt.  He  had  not  realized  that  at  seven- 

244 


LILITH  AND  MURIEL  245 

teen  four  months  make  a  big  difference  with  a  girl. 
No  one  had  told  him  that  she  had  put  her  hair  up 
and  that  her  skirts  would  only  reveal  the  instep  of  her 
ankle.  He  had  left  her  a  girl  and  she  had  become  a 
woman. 

She  was  the  first  person  he  saw  on  his  arrival.  A 
footman  had  just  taken  his  bag  and  was  helping  him 
off  with  his  coat  when  the  drawing-room  door  opened, 
there  was  a  rustle  of  skirts,  and  Muriel  came  impul- 
sively to  greet  him. 

He  drew  back  in  surprise  at  the  sight  of  her  tall, 
graceful  figure,  with  the  long,  tightly  fitting  skirt  and 
hair  no  longer  tossing  mischievously  about  her  shoul- 
ders, but  gathered  behind  her  neck  in  a  long,  wide 
curve. 

"What's  the  matter,  Roland?"  she  asked. 

"But,  Muriel,"  he  said. 

"Well?" 

"You  are  so  changed." 

She  broke  into  a  peal,  a  silvery  peal,  of  laughter. 

"So  you  have  noticed  it?  We  wondered  whether 
you  would.  Mother  thought  you  would,  but  I  said 
you  wouldn't.  And  Gerald  had  a  bet  with  father  about 
it  and  he's  won,  so  he'll  have  to  take  us  all  to  a 
theater.  Come  and  tell  them  about  it." 

Roland  followed  her  in  amazement.  The  change 
in  her  was  so  unexpected.  He  had  always  looked  on 
her  as  a  little  girl  whom  he  had  teased  and  played 
with,  and  now,  suddenly,  in  a  night,  she  had  grown  up 
into  a  daughter  of  that  other  world  of  which  he  had 
caught  fleeting,  enticing  glimpses  at  restaurants  and 
theaters.  He  watched  her  as  she  laughed  and  talked, 
unable  to  realize  that  this  was  the  little  girl  with 
whom  he  had  played  last  summer.  And  yet  to  him 
she  was  unaltered.  She  offered  him  the  same  frank 


246  ROLAND  WHATELY 

comradeship.  She  took  him  for  a  walk  after  tea  and 
spoke  with  real  enthusiasm  of  his  success. 

"I  can't  say  how  glad  I  am,  Roland.  I  was  so 
awfully  anxious  for  you  to  come  off.  I  was  so  afraid 
something  might  go  wrong.  I  think  it's  wonderful  of 
you." 

Her  words  thrilled  him.  It  was  something  to  win 
the  admiration  of  a  girl  like  Muriel.  April  was  natu- 
rally impressed  by  his  achievements.  Of  course  it 
would  be  wonderful  to  her  that  he  should  visit  great 
cities  and  dabble  in  high  finance.  It  was  like  a  fairy 
story  that  had  come  true.  But  Muriel  had  spent  all 
her  life  in  that  world.  She  had  traveled ;  her  parents 
were  rich.  She  was  accustomed  to  the  jargon  of 
finance.  It  would  have  been  a  feat  for  him,  a  new- 
comer to  that  world,  to  have  proved  himself  able  to 
move  comfortably  there,  but  to  have  impressed  her 
with  his  achievements  .  .  .  and  when  she  began  to 
ask  him  how  he  had  maneuvered  those  big  interviews 
his  flattered  vanity  could  not  allow  him  to  hold  his 
secret. 

"But  I've  told  no  one,"  he  said,  "not  even  my 
people." 

"That's  all  the  more  reason  why  you  should  tell 
me." 

"Will  you  promise  to  keep  it  a  secret?" 

"On  my  honor." 

And  so  he  told  her  of  his  fortune  and  adroitness, 
how  he  had  met  Monsieur  Rocheville  in  the  restau- 
rant and  how  he  had  tricked  Herr  Haupsehr  with  the 
magic  name  of  Brumenhein.  She  laughed  heartily 
and  asked  him  questions.  What  would  happen  if  the 
two  ever  met? 

"The  Lord  knows,"  said  Roland.  "But  in  the  mean- 
time we  shall  have  sold  many  gallons  of  varnish, 


LILITH  AND  MURIEL  247 

and  perhaps  we  shall  have  become  indispensable  to 
the  old  fellow." 

They  made  no  mention  during  their  walk  of 
Beatrice.  For  some  unexplained  reason  Roland  had 
felt  shy  of  asking  Muriel  whether  she  was  to  be  one 
of  the  party.  He  had  been  content  to  wait  and,  on 
their  return,  he  experienced,  as  he  pushed  open  the 
drawing-room  door,  a  sudden  surprising  anxiety. 
Would  Beatrice  be  there?  He  assumed  composure, 
but  he  could  not  prevent  his  eyes  traveling  quickly 
round  the  room  in  search  of  her.  When  he  saw  that 
she  was  not  there  he  felt  a  sudden  emptiness,  a 
genuine  disappointment.  She  would  not  be  coming, 
then.  And  now  that  she  was  not  there  half  his 
excitement,  his  enthusiasm,  was  gone.  He  sat  beside 
Mrs.  Marston  and  discussed,  without  interest,  the 
costliness  of  Brussels  lace,  and  wondered  how  soon 
he  could  conveniently  go  and  change  for  dinner.  The 
minutes  dragged  by. 

And  then  at  last,  in  that  half  hour  when  the  room 
was  slowly  emptying,  the  door  opened  and  he  saw 
Beatrice,  her  slim  figure  silhouetted  against  the  dull 
red  wall  paper  of  the  hall.  His  heart  almost  stopped 
beating.  Would  she  notice  him,  he  wondered.  Had 
she  forgotten  their  lunch  together?  Had  the  growing 
intimacy  between  them  been  dispelled  by  a  four 
months'  absence?  He  watched  her  walk  slowly  into 
the  room,  her  hair,  as  ever,  disordered  about  her  neck 
and  temples,  and  on  her  features  that  look  of  differ- 
ence, of  being  apart,  of  belonging  to  another  world, 
that  appearance  of  complete  detachment.  Then  sud- 
denly she  saw  Roland,  and  smiled  and  walked  quickly 
forward,  her  hand  stretched  out  to  him. 

"I've  been  hearing  so  much  about  you,"  she  said. 
"They  tell  me  you've  been  doing  wonderful  things. 


248  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Come  and  sit  with  me  over  here  and  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

And  once  again  the  love  of  vanity  prompted  him 
to  confess  his  secret. 

"But  you  won't  tell  anyone,  will  you?"  he  im- 
plored. 

She  smiled.  "If  I  can  keep  my  own  secrets,  surely 
I  can  keep  yours,"  she  said.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
"And  they  tell  me  Gerald  won  his  bet." 

He  blushed  hotly.    "Yes." 

"I  knew  he  would,"  she  said,  and  she  leaned  for- 
ward, as  she  had  at  the  restaurant,  her  hands  pil- 
lowing her  chin,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his. 

Roland  laughed  nervously.  "But  I  don't  see  why," 
he  began. 

She  shook  her  head.  "That's  the  mistake  all  you 
men  make.  You  think  a  woman  sees  nothing  unless 
she's  not  watching  you  the  whole  time.  But  she 
does." 

It  flattered  him  to  be  included  under  the  general 
heading  of  "you  men."  And  at  that  moment  Muriel 
came  into  the  room.  She  was  wearing  a  low  evening 
dress,  wonderfully  charming  in  her  new-found  woman- 
hood. Roland's  eyes  followed  her  in  admiration. 

"Isn't  she  pretty?"  he  said.  "That  pale  blue  dress; 
it's  just  right.  It  goes  well  with  her  complexion. 
Pale  colors  always  do." 

Beatrice  did  not  answer  for  a  moment;  then  she 
gave  a  little  sigh.  "Yes,  Muriel  is  very  pretty.  I 
envy  her." 

Roland  turned  quickly  to  her  a  look  of  surprised 
interrogation. 

"But  you !    Why  you  look  younger  than  any  of  us." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Perhaps;  but  what's 
the  use  of  it  to  me?  Ah,  don't  say  anything,  please. 


LILITH  AND  MURIEL  249 

You  mustn't  waste  your  time  on  me.  Go  on  and  talk 
to  Muriel." 

Dinner  that  evening  was  a  jovial  meal.  Muriel 
having  announced  with  due  solemnity  that  Gerald  had 
won  his  bet,  she  proceeded  to  decide  at  what  theater 
Mr.  Marston  should  fulfill  his  obligation. 

"And  don't  you  think,"  said  Muriel,  "that  Roland 
ought  to  come  with  us?  If  it  weren't  for  him  we 
shouldn't  be  going  at  all." 

"I  suppose  he  ought,  the  young  rascal,  though  I 
can't  think  why  he  should  have  spotted  it.  Muriel 
was  an  untidy  little  scamp  when  he  went  away,  and 
she's  an  untidy  little  scamp  now  he's  come  back." 

"Oh,  father!" 

"Yes,  you  are.  You  can't  tell  what's  on  purpose 
with  you  and  what  isn't ;  you're  all  over  the  place." 

It  was  perfectly  untrue,  of  course,  but  they  laughed 
all  the  same. 

"That's  a  poor  excuse,  father,"  said  Gerald.  "I 
knew  he'd  spot  it.  It's  through  spotting  things  like 
that  that  he  manages  to  wrangle  interviews  with  all 
these  pots." 

"Perhaps  it  is,  perhaps  it  is ;  I'm  bothered  if  I  know 
how  he  does  it."  And  Roland  and  Muriel  exchanged 
a  swift  glance  of  confederacy;  a  feeling  that  was  in- 
creased when  the  last  post  arrived  and  Mr.  Marston 
interrupted  the  general  conversation  with  a  piece  of 
news  his  letter  had  brought  him. 

"My  dear,  here's  a  funny  thing.  I  never  saw  it  in 
the  papers,  though  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  in 
them.  But  that  fellow  Brumenhein  is  dead." 

"Brumenhein ! " 

"Yes,  you  know — the  fellow  whom  the  Kaiser 
thought  such  a  lot  of.  People  said  he  might  very 
likely  supplant  Griegenbach." 


250  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"I  didn't  dare  look  at  you,"  Roland  said  to  Muriel 
afterwards.  "I  couldn't  have  kept  a  straight  face  if 
I  had." 

"And  what  a  bit  of  luck." 

"It  may  save  me  a  lot  of  unpleasantness  later  on." 

"You're  a  wonderful  boy." 

They  were  saying  good  night  to  each  other  on  the 
landing,  and  Muriel,  who  slept  on  the  second  floor, 
was  standing  on  the  stairs,  leaning  over  the  banisters. 
Her  words  made  Roland  feel  very  brave  and  con- 
fident. 

"And  to  think  that  you  didn't  expect  me  to  notice 
that  you  had  put  your  hair  up!" 

He  meant  it  as  a  joking  repartee  to  her  compliment, 
but  the  moment  after  he  had  said  it  he  felt  frightened. 
They  looked  at  each  other  and  said  nothing.  There 
was  a  moment  of  chill,  intense  embarrassment,  then 
Muriel  gave  a  nervous  laugh  and,  turning  quickly, 
ran  up  to  her  bedroom. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THREE  YEARS 

next  three  years  of  Roland's  life  were  an 
amplification  of  those  three  days,  and  nothing 
would  be  gained  by  a  detailed  description  of  them. 
The  narrative  would  be  cut  across  frequently  by 
visits  to  Europe,  dropped  threads  would  have  to  be 
gathered  up,  relationships  reopened.  The  action  was 
delayed,  interrupted  and,  at  times,  held  up  altogether. 
The  trips  abroad  were  always  altering  Roland's  per- 
spective, and  the  sense  of  distance  made  him  recon- 
sider his  attitude.  Four  months  after  the  events  de- 
scribed in  the  last  chapter  he  had  reached  a  state  of 
acute  reaction  against  his  home,  his  parents  and,  in 
a  way,  against  April,  because  of  her  connection  with 
that  world  from  which  he  was  endeavoring  to  escape. 
Very  little  was  needed  to  drive  him  into  declared 
revolt,  but  at  that  moment  he  was  sent  abroad  and, 
once  abroad,  everything  became  different.  He  began 
to  accuse  himself  of  selfishness  and  ingratitude.  His 
parents  had  denied  themselves  comfort  and  pleasure 
to  send  him  to  an  expensive  school;  they  had  given 
him  everything.  Like  the  pelican,  they  had  gone  hun- 
gry so  that  he  should  be  full.  Since  he  could  remem- 
ber, the  life  of  that  family  had  centered  round  him. 
Every  question  had  been  considered  on  the  bearing  it 
would  have  on  his  career.  Was  this  the  manner  of 
repayment?  And  it  was  the  same  with  April.  He 

253 


254  ROLAND  WHATELY 

forgot  her  mother  and  her  home ;  he  remembered  only 
her  beauty  and  her  love  for  him,  her  fixed,  unwaver- 
ing love,  and  the  dreams  that  they  had  shared.  He 
always  returned  home  in  a  temper  of  sentimentality, 
full  of  good  resolutions,  promising  himself  that  he 
would  be  gentle  and  sympathetic  to  his  parents,  that 
he  would  never  swerve  from  his  love  for  April.  The 
first  days  were  invariably  soft  and  sweet;  but  in  a 
short  time  the  old  conflict  reasserted  itself;  the  bright 
world  of  Hogstead  stood  in  dazzling  contrast  to  the 
unromantic  Hammerton.  He  became  irritated,  as 
before,  by  the  trifling  inconveniences  of  a  house  that 
lacked  a  parlor  maid;  unpunctual,  unappetizing 
meals;  and,  more  especially,  by  the  endless  friction 
imposed  on  him  by  the  company  of  men  and  women 
who  had  been  harassed  all  their  lives  by  the  fret  and 
worry  of  small  houses  and  small  incomes.  Trivial, 
ignoble  troubles,  that  was  the  misfortune  of  everyone 
fated  to  live  in  Hammerton.  And  April  was  a  part 
of  it.  He  was  very  fond  of  her ;  indeed,  he  still  thought 
he  was  in  love  with  her,  but  love  for  Roland  was  de- 
pendent on  many  other  things,  was  bound  up  with  his 
other  enthusiasms  and  reactions.  He  enjoyed  her 
company  and  her  caresses.  In  her  presence  he  was 
capable  of  genuine  tenderness;  but  it  was  so  easy. 
April  responded  so  simply  to  any  kindness  shown  to 
her.  There  was  no  uncertainty  about  her.  He  missed 
the  swift  anger  of  the  chase. 

More  and  more  frequently  he  found  himself  re- 
ceiving and  accepting  invitations  to  spend  the  week- 
end at  Hogstead;  and  always  when  he  announced  his 
intention  of  going  there  he  was  aware  of  silent  criti- 
cism on  the  part  of  his  parents.  He  felt  guilty  and 
ashamed  of  himself  for  feeling  guilty.  It  became  a 
genuine  struggle  for  him  to  pronounce  the  words  at 


THREE  YEARS  255 

breakfast.  It  was  like  confessing  a  secret,  and  he 
hated  it.  Had  he  not  a  right  to  choose  his  friends? 
Then  would  come  a  reaction  of  acute  self-accusation 
and  he  would  improvise  a  treat,  a  theater  or  a  picnic. 
His  emotions  would  fling  it  like  a  sop  to  his  con- 
science: "There,  does  that  content  you?  Now  may  I 
go  and  live  my  own  life?"  Afterwards,  of  course,  he 
was  again  bitterly  ashamed  of  himself. 

But  always  on  the  ebb-flow  of  his  contrition  came 
fear — the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  to  save,  at  all 
costs,  his  individuality  from  the  fate  that  threatened 
it.  Whenever  things  seemed  likely  to  reach  a  head,  a 
European  trip  would  intervene,  and  the  whole  busi- 
ness would  have  to  begin  again.  An  action  that  would 
ordinarily  have  completed  its  rhythm  within  three  or 
four  months  was  lengthened  into  three  years;  in  the 
end  inevitably  the  curve  of  the  parabola  was  reached. 
The  time  was  drawing  near  when  Roland  would  have 
to  make  his  decision  one  way  or  another. 

He  was  by  now  earning  a  salary  of  four  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  and  marriage — marriage  as  his  parents 
understood  it — was  well  within  his  means.  Up  till 
now,  whenever  any  suggestion  about  the  date  of  his 
marriage  had  been  advanced,  he  referred  to  the  un- 
certain nature  of  his  work. 

"I  never  know  where  I'm  going  to  be  from  one  week 
to  another.  Marriage  is  out  of  the  question  for  a  chap 
with  a  job  like  that." 

Their  engagement  was  still  unannounced.  He  had 
retained  that  loophole,  though  at  the  time  it  was  not 
so  that  he  had  regarded  it. 

Ralph  had  asked  him  once  whether  he  was  en- 
gaged. And  the  question  had  put  him  on  his  guard. 
He  didn't  like  engagements.  Love  was  a  secret  be- 
tween two  people.  Why  make  it  public?  He  must 


256  ROLAND  WHATELY 

strike  before  the  enemy  struck.  In  other  words,  he 
must  come  to  an  agreement  with  April  before  her 
mother  opened  negotiations.  That  evening  he  had 
brought  up  the  subject. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  window-seat,  while  she  was 
on  a  stool  beside  him,  her  head  resting  against  his 
knees  and  his  hand  stroking  slowly  her  neck  and  hair 
and  cheek. 

"You  know,  darling,"  he  said,  "I've  been  thinking 
about  our  engagement." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Well,  are  you  awfully  keen  on  an  engagement?" 

"But  how  do  you  mean?  We  shall  have  to  be 
engaged  sometime,  shan't  we?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  yes.  But  there's  no  need  for  a  long 
engagement,  is  there?  What  I  mean  is  that  we  could 
easily  get  engaged  now  if  we  wanted  to.  But  it  would 
be  a  long  business,  and  oh,  I  don't  know !  Once  we're 
engaged  our  affairs  cease  to  be  our  own.  People  will 
be  asking  us  'When's  the  happy  day?'  and  ah1  that 
sort  of  thing.  Our  love  won't  be  our  own  any  longer." 

"It's  just  as  you  like,  dear." 

It  was  so  nice  to  sit  there  against  his  knee,  with 
his  fingers  against  her  face.  Why  should  they  worry 
about  things?  It  would  be  nice  to  be  engaged,  of 
course,  and  to  have  a  pretty  ring,  but  it  didn't  matter. 
"It's  just  as  you  like,"  she  had  said,  and  they  had 
left  it  at  that  over  two  years  ago  and  there  had  been 
no  reason  to  rediscuss  it.  But  he  knew  that  now  the 
whole  matter  would  have  to  be  brought  up.  It  had 
been  decided  that  he  was  to  remain  in  London  for  a 
couple  of  years  in  charge  of  the  Continental  branch ; 
he  would  have  to  go  abroad  occasionally,  but  there 
would  be  no  more  long  trips.  He  was  in  a  position 
to  marry  if  he  wanted  to.  His  family  would  expect 


THREE  YEARS  257 

him  to  those  of  his  friends  who  had  heard  of  the  "un- 
derstanding" would  expect  him  to,  Mrs.  Curtis  would 
expect  him  to,  and  he  owed  it  to  April  that  he  should 
marry  her.  For  years  now  he  had  kept  her  waiting. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  as  to  what  was 
his  duty. 

Nothing,  however,  could  alter  the  fact  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  world  that  he  wanted  less  than 
this  marriage.  It  would  mean  an  end  to  all  those 
pleasant  week-ends  at  Hogstead.  It  was  one  thing 
to  invite  a  young  bachelor  who  was  no  trouble  to 
look  after  and  who  was  amusing  company;  it  was 
quite  another  thing  to  entertain  a  married  couple. 
He  would  no  longer  be  able  to  throw  into  his  business 
that  undivided  energy  of  his.  He  would  not  be  free; 
he  would  have  to  play  for  safety.  As  his  friendship 
with  the  Marstons  began  to  wane,  he  would  become 
increasingly  every  year  an  employee  and  not  an  as- 
sociate. He  would  belong  to  the  ruled  class.  And  it 
would  be  the  end,  too,  of  his  pleasant  little  dinner 
parties  with  Gerald.  He  would  have  to  be  very  care- 
ful with  his  money.  They  would  be  fairly  comfort- 
able in  a  small  house  for  the  first  year  or  so,  but  from 
the  birth  of  their  first  child  their  life  would  become 
complicated  with  endless  financial  worries  and  would 
begin  to  resemble  that  of  his  own  father  and  mother, 
till,  finally,  he  would  lose  interest  in  himself  and 
begin  to  live  in  his  children.  What  a  world!  The 
failure  of  the  parent  became  forgotten  in  the  high 
promise  of  the  child,  and  that  child  grew  up  only  to 
meet  and  be  broken  by  the  conspiracy  of  the  world's 
wisdom  and,  in  its  turn,  to  focus  its  thwarted  ambi- 
tions on  its  children,  and  then  its  children's  children. 
That  was  the  eternal  cycle  of  disillusion;  whatever 
happened  he  must  break  that  wheel. 


258  ROLAND  WHATELY 

But  the  battle  appeared  hopeless.  The  forces  were 
so  strong  that  were  marshaled  against  him.  What 
chance  did  he  stand  against  that  mingled  appeal  of 
sentiment  and  habit?  All  that  spring  he  felt  himself 
standing  upon  a  rapidly  crumbling  wall.  Whenever 
he  went  down  to  Hogstead  he  kept  saying  to  him- 
self: "Yes,  I'm  safe  now,  secure  within  time  and  space. 
But  it's  coming.  Nothing  can  stop  it.  Night  follows 
day,  winter  summer;  one  can't  fight  against  the 
future,  one  can't  anticipate  it.  One  has  to  wait;  it 
chooses  its  own  time  and  its  own  place."  At  the  office 
he  was  fretful  and  absent-minded. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  Gerald  asked  him 
once. 

"Nothing." 

"Oh,  but  there  must  be,  you've  been  awfully  queer 
the  last  week  or  so." 

Roland  did  not  answer,  and  there  was  an  awkward 
silence. 

"I  say,  old  man,  I  don't  quite  like  asking  you,  but 
you're  not  in  debt  or  anything,  are  you?  Because 
if  you  are,  I  mean " 

"Oh,  no,  really.    I'm  not  even  'overdrawn.' ' 

In  Gerald's  experience  of  the  world  there  were  two 
ills  to  which  mankind  was  heir — money  and  woman. 
The  subdivisions  of  these  ills  were  many,  but  he  rec- 
ognized no  other  main  source.  If  Roland  was  not  in 
debt,  then  there  was  a  woman  somewhere,  and  later 
in  the  day  he  brought  the  matter  up  again. 

"I  say,  old  son,  you've  not  been  making  an  ass  of 
yourself  with  some  woman,  have  you?  No  one's  got 
hold  of  you,  have  they?" 

"Lord,  no!"  laughed  Roland.  "I  only  wish  they 
had!" 

But  Gerald  raised  a  warning  finger. 


THREE  YEARS  259 

"Touch  wood,  my  son.  Don't  insult  Providence. 
You  can  take  my  word  for  it  that  sooner  or  later  some 
woman  will  get  hold  of  you  and  then  it's  the  devil, 
the  very  devil.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the  girl  at 
Broadstairs?"  And  there  ensued  the  description  of 
a  seaside  amour,  followed  by  some  shrewd  generali- 
ties on  the  ways  of  a  man  with — but  to  conclude  the 
quotation  would  be  hardly  pertinent.  At  any  rate, 
Gerald  told  his  story  and  pointed  his  moral. 

"You  may  take  my  word  for  it,  adultery  is  a  whack- 
ing risk.  It's  awfully  jolly  while  it  lasts,  and  you 
think  yourself  no  end  of  a  dog  when  you  offer  the 
husband  a  cigar,  but  sooner  or  later  the  wife  clings 
round  the  bed-post  and  says:  'Darling,  I  have  de- 
ceived you!'  And  then  you're  in  it,  up  to  the  ruddy 
neck!"' 

Roland  laughed,  as  he  always  did,  at  Gerald's 
stories,  but  it  hurt  him  to  think  that  his  friend  should 
have  noticed  a  change  in  him.  If  he  was  altered  al- 
ready by  a  few  weeks  of  Hammerton,  what  would  he 
be  like  hi  five  years'  time  after  the  responsibilities 
of  marriage  had  had  their  way  with  him?  And  mar- 
riage was  not  for  five  years,  but  for  fifty. 

He  never  spoke  to  Gerald  of  April  now.  There  had 
been  a  time  in  the  early  days  of  their  friendship  when 
he  had  confided  in  him,  under  an  oath  of  secrecy,  that 
he  hoped  to  marry  her  as  soon  as  his  position  per- 
mitted. And  Gerald  had  agreed  with  him  that  it  was 
a  fine  thing  to  marry  young,  "and  it's  the  right  thing 
for  you,"  he  added ;  "some  fellows  are  meant  for  mar- 
riage and  others  aren't.  I  think  you're  one  of  the 
ones  that  are."  A  cryptic  statement  that  Roland  had, 
at  the  time,  called  in  question,  but  Gerald  only 
laughed.  "I  may  be  wrong,"  he  had  said,  "one  never 
knows,  but  I  don't  think  I  am."  Often  afterwards 


260  ROLAND  WHATELY 

he  had  asked  Roland  about  April  and  whether  they 
were  still  in  love  with  each  other  as  much  as  ever, 
and  Roland,  his  vanity  flattered  by  the  inquiry,  had 
assured  him  of  their  constancy.  But  of  late,  when 
Gerald  had  made  some  light  reference  to  "the  fair 
April,"  Roland  had  changed  the  conversation,  or,  if 
a  question  were  asked,  had  answered  it  obliquely,  or 
managed  to  evade  it,  so  that  Gerald  had  realized 
that  the  subject  was  no  longer  agreeable  to  him,  and, 
being  blessed  with  an  absence  of  curiosity,  had 
dropped  it  from  his  repertoire  of  pleasantries.  But 
he  did  not  connect  April  with  his  friend's  despond- 
ency. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THREE   DAYS 

THE  summer  was  nearly  over,  however,  before  the 
crisis  came.  It  was  on  a  Friday  evening  in  the 
beginning  of  September,  and  Roland  was  sitting  with 
his  mother,  as  was  usual  with  them,  for  a  short  talk 
after  his  father  had  gone  to  bed.  He  could  tell  that 
something  was  worrying  her.  Her  conversation  had 
been  disjointed  and  many  of  her  remarks  irrelevant. 
And  suddenly  his  instinct  warned  him  that  she  was 
going  to  speak  to  him  about  April.  He  went  sud- 
denly still.  If  someone  had  thrown  a  stone  at  him 
at  that  moment  he  would  have  been  unable  to  move 
out  of  the  way  of  it.  He  could  recollect  distinctly,  to 
the  end  of  his  life,  everything  that  had  passed  through 
his  mind  during  that  minute  of  terrifying  silence  that 
lay  between  his  realization  of  what  was  coming  and 
the  first  sound  of  that  opening  sentence. 

"Roland,  dear,  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  mention- 
ing it,  but  your  father  and  I  have  been  talking  to- 
gether about  you  and  April." 

He  could  remember  everything:  the  shout  of  a 
newsboy  in  the  street — "Murder  in  Tufnell  Park!"  the 
slight  rustle  of  the  curtain  against  the  window-sill; 
the  click  of  his  mother's  knitting  needles.  And,  till 
that  moment,  he  had  never  noticed  that  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet  was  irregular,  that  on  the  left  side  there 
were  seven  roses  and  five  poppies  and  on  the  right 

261 


262  ROLAND  WHATELY 

six  roses  and  six  poppies.  They  had  had  that  carpet 
for  twenty  years  and  he  had  never  noticed  it  before. 
His  eyes  were  riveted  on  this  curious  deformity,  while 
through  the  window  came  the  shriek  of  the  newsboy 
—"Murder  in  Tufnell  Park!"  Then  his  mother's 
voice  broke  the  tension.  The  moment  had  come;  he 
gathered  his  strength  to  him.  As  he  had  walked  five 
years  earlier  with  unflinching  head,  up  the  hill  to 
Carus  Evans,  so  now  he  answered  his  mother  with 
an  even  voice: 

"Yes,  mother?" 

"Well,  dear,  we've  been  thinking  that  you  really 
ought  to  be  settling  something  definite  about  your- 
self and  April." 

"But  we  didn't  want  to  be  engaged,  mother." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,  dear.  I  know  about  that. 
It's  a  modern  idea,  I  suppose,  though  I  think  myself 
that  it  would  have  been  better  some  time  ago,  but  it's 
not  an  engagement  so  much  we're  thinking  of  as  of 
your  marriage." 

It  was  more  sudden  than  Roland  had  expected. 

"Oh,  but — oh,  surely  Mrs.  Curtis  would  never  agree. 
She'd  say  we  were  much  too  young." 

"Well,  that's  what  we  thought,  but  I  went  round 
and  saw  her  the  other  day,  and  she  quite  agreed  with 
us  that  it  was  really  no  good  waiting  any  longer. 
You  are  making  a  lot  of  money,  and  it's  quite  likely 
that  Mr.  Marston  will  raise  your  salary  when  he  hears 
you're  going  to  be  married ;  and  after  all,  why  should 
you  wait?  As  I  said  to  your  father :  'They've  known 
each  other  for  a  long  time,  and  if  they  don't  know 
their  minds  now  they  never  will.' ' 

Roland  did  not  know  what  to  say.  He  was  un- 
armed by  a  sympathy  and  kindness  against  which  he 
could  not  fight. 


THREE  DAYS  263 

"It's  awfully  decent  of  you."  Those  were  the  only 
words  that  occurred  to  him,  and  he  knew,  even  as  he 
uttered  them,  that  they  were  not  only  completely 
inadequate,  but  pitifully  inexpressive  of  his  state  of 
mind. 

"We  only  want  to  do  what  will  make  you  happy, 
and  it  is  happier  to  marry  young,  really  it  is!" 

He  made  a  last  struggle. 

"But,  mother,  don't  you  think  that  for  April's  sake 
— she's  so  young.  Isn't  it  rather  hard  on  her  to  be 
loaded  with  responsibilities  so  early?" 

"It's  nice  of  you  to  think  that,  Roland.  It  shows 
you  really  care  for  her;  but  I  think  that  in  the  end, 
when  she's  an  old  woman  like  I  am,  she'll  be  glad 
she  married  young." 

And  then,  because  Roland  looked  still  doubtful,  she 
offered  him  the  benefit  of  what  wisdom  the  narrow 
experiences  of  her  life  had  brought  her.  She  had 
never  unlocked  her  heart  before ;  it  hurt  her  to  do  it 
now  and  her  eyes  welled  with  tears.  But  she  felt 
that,  at  this  great  crisis  of  his  life,  she  must  be  pre- 
pared to  lay  before  her  son  everything  that  might 
help  him  in  it.  It  might  be  of  assistance  to  him  to 
know  how  these  things  touched  a  woman,  and  so  she 
told  him  how  she  too  had  once  thought  it  cruel  that 
responsibilities  should  have  been  laid  on  her  so  soon. 

"I  was  only  nineteen  when  I  married  your  father, 
and  things  were  very  difficult  at  first.  It  was  a  small 
house,  we  had  no  servant,  and  I  had  to  get  up  early 
in  the  morning  and  light  the  fires  and  get  the  break- 
fast things  ready,  and  all  the  morning  I  had  to  scrub 
and  brush  and  wash  up.  I  had  no  friends.  And  then, 
after  tea,  I  used  to  lie  down  for  an  hour  and  rest,  I 
was  so  tired,  and  I  wanted  to  look  fresh  and  pretty 
for  your  father  when  he  came  home.  And  there  were 


264.  ROLAND  WHATELY 

times  when  I  thought  it  was  unfair;  that  I  should 
have  been  allowed  to  be  free  and  happy  and  unwor- 
ried  like  other  girls  of  my  age.  I  used  to  see  some 
of  my  school  friends  very  occasionally  and  they  used 
to  tell  me  of  their  balls  and  parties,  and  I  was  so 
envious.  And  then  very  often  your  father  was  irri- 
table and  bad-tempered  when  he  came  back,  and  he 
found  fault  with  my  cooking,  and  I  used  to  go  away 
and  cry  all  by  myself  and  wonder  why  I  was  doing 
it,  working  so  hard  and  for  nothing.  And  then  I  be- 
gan to  think  he  didn't  love  me  any  more;  there  was 
another  girl:  she  was  fresher;  she  didn't  have  to  do 
any  housework.  There  was  nothing  in  it;  it  never 
came  to  anything.  Your  father  was  always  faith- 
ful ;  he's  always  been  very  good  to  me,  but  I  could  see 
from  the  way  his  face  lighted  up  when  she  came  into 
the  room  that  he  was  attracted  by  her,  and  I  can't 
tell  you  how  it  hurt  me.  I  used  to  think  that  he 
preferred  that  other  girl,  that  he  thought  her  prettier 
than  I  was.  It  wasn't  easy  those  first  three  years. 
When  you've  been  married  three  years  you're  almost 
certain  to  regret  it  and  think  you  could  have  done  bet- 
ter with  someone  else,  but  after  ten  years  you'll  know 
very  well  that  you  couldn't,  because,  Roland,  love 
doesn't  last;  not  what  you  mean  by  love;  but  some- 
thing takes  its  place,  and  that  something  is  more  im- 
portant. When  two  people  have  been  through  as 
much  together  as  your  father  and  I  have,  there's — 
I  don't  know  how  to  put  it — but,  you  can't  do  with- 
out each  other.  And  it  makes  a  big  difference  the 
being  married  early.  That's  why  I  should  like  you 
and  April  to  marry  as  soon  as  ever  you  can.  You'd 
never  regret  it." 

The  tears  began  to  trickle  slowly  down  her  cheeks ; 
she  tried  to  go  on,  but  failed. 


THREE  DAYS  265 

Roland  did  not  know  what  to  do  or  say.  He  had 
never  loved  his  mother  so  much  as  he  did  then,  but 
he  could  not  express  that  love  for  her  with  words. 
He  knelt  forward  and  put  his  arms  round  her  and  drew 
her  damp  cheek  to  his. 

"Mother,"  he  whispered.    "Mother,  darling!" 

For  a  long  time  they  remained  thus  in  a  silent  em- 
brace. Then  she  drew  back,  straightened  nerself,  and 
began  to  dab  at  her  eyes  with  a  handkerchief. 

"It'll  be  all  right,  mother,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  smiled  a  soft,  glad  smile, 
and  taking  his  hand  pressed  it  gently  between  hers. 

"As  long  as  you're  happy,  Roland,"  she  said. 

And  so  the  crisis  had  come  and  had  been  settled. 
In  those  few  minutes  the  direction  of  fifty  years  had 
been  chosen  finally.  It  was  hard,  but  what  would 
you?  Life  went  that  way.  At  any  rate  he  would 
have  those  first  few  scented  months ;  that  at  least  was 
his.  For  a  year  he  and  April  would  be  indescribably 
happy  in  the  new-found  intimacy  of  marriage,  and 
afterwards — but  of  what  could  one  be  certain?  For 
all  he  knew  life  might  choose  to  readjust  itself.  One 
could  not  have  anything  both  ways ;  indeed,  one  paid 
for  everything.  The  Athenian  parent  had  been  far- 
seeing  when  he  knelt  before  the  altar  in  prayer  that 
the  compensating  evil  for  his  son's  success  might  be 
light.  One  should  do  what  lay  to  hand.  As  he  curled 
himself  in  his  bed  he  thought  of  April,  and  his  heart 
beat  quickly  at  the  knowledge  that  her  grace  and 
tenderness  would  soon  be  his. 

He  shut  away  all  thought  of  the  dark  years  that 
must  follow  the  passing  of  that  first  enchantment 
and  fixed  his  mind  on  the  sure  pleasure  that  awaited 
him.  How  wonderful,  after  all,  marriage  could  be. 
To  return  home  at  the  end  of  the  day  and  find  your 


266  ROLAND  WHATELY 

wife  waiting  for  you.  You  would  be  tired  and  she 
would  take  you  in  her  arms  and  run  cool  fingers 
through  your  hair,  and  you  would  talk  together  for 
a  while,  and  she  would  tell  you  what  she  had  done 
during  the  day,  and  you  would  tell  her  of  whom  you 
had  met  and  of  the  business  you  had  transacted,  and 
you  would  bring  your  successes  and  lay  them  at  her 
feet  and  you  would  say:  "I  made  so  much  money 
to-day."  And  your  words  would  lock  that  money  away 
in  her  little  hand — "All  yours,"  they  would  seem  to 
say.  Then  you  would  go  upstairs  and  change  for 
dinner,  and  when  you  came  down  you  would  find  her 
standing  before  the  fire,  one  long,  bare  arm  lying  along 
the  mantelpiece,  and  you  would  come  to  her  and 
very  slowly  pass  your  hand  along  it,  and,  bending 
your  head,  you  would  kiss  the  smooth  skin  of  her 
neck.  And  could  anything  be  more  delightful  than 
the  quiet  dinner  together?  Then  would  come  the 
slow  contentment  of  that  hour  or  so  before  bedtime, 
while  the  warmth  of  the  fire  subsided  slowly  and  you 
sat  talking  in  low  tones.  And,  afterwards,  when  you 
were  alone  in  the  warm  darkness  to  love  each  other. 
Marriage  must  be  a  very  fine  adventure. 

The  next  day  brought  with  it  its  own  problems, 
and  on  this  Saturday  morning  in  early  autumn  the 
white  mist  that  lay  over  the  roofs  of  Hammerton  was 
a  sufficient  object  of  speculation.  Did  it  veil  the  blue 
sky  that  adds  so  much  to  the  charm  of  cricket,  or  a 
gray,  sodden  expanse  of  windy,  low-flying  clouds?  It- 
was  the  last  Saturday  of  the  cricket  season.  Roland 
was,  naturally,  bound  for  Hogstead,  and  there  is  no 
day  in  the  whole  year  on  which  the  cricketer  watches 
the  sky  with  more  anxiety.  In  May  he  is  impatient 
for  his  first  innings,  but  as  he  walks  up  and  down  the 
pavilion  in  his  spiked  boots  and  hears  the  rain  patter 


THREE  DAYS  267 

on  the  corrugated  iron  roof  he  can  comfort  himself 
with  the  knowledge  that  sooner  or  later  the  sun  will 
shine,  if  not  this  week,  then  the  next,  and  that  in  a 
long  season  he  is  bound  to  have  many  opportunities 
of  employing  that  late  cut  he  has  been  practicing  so 
assiduously  at  the  nets.  In  the  middle  of  the  season 
he  is  a  hardened  warrior;  he  takes  the  bad  with  the 
good ;  he  has  outgrown  his  first  eagerness ;  he  has  be- 
come, in  fact,  a  philosopher.  Last  week  he  made 
seventy-two  against  the  Stoics  and  was  missed  in  the 
slips  before  he  had  scored.  Such  fortune  is  bound  to 
be  followed  by  a  few  disappointments.  But  at  the 
end  of  the  season  a  wet  day  is  a  dire  misfortune.  As 
he  sits  in  the  pavilion  and  watches  the  rain  sweep 
across  the  pitch  he  remembers  that  only  that  morn- 
ing he  observed  the  erection  of  goal  posts  on  the 
village  green,  that  the  winter  is  long  and  slow  to 
pass,  that  for  eight  months  he  will  not  hold  a  bat  in 
his  hands,  that  this,  his  last  forlorn  opportunity  of 
making  a  century,  is  even  now  fast  slipping  from  him. 

The  depression  of  such  a  day  is  an  abiding  memory 
through  the  gray  months  of  January  and  December, 
and,  though  Roland  had  had  a  fairly  successful  sea- 
son, he  was  naturally  anxious  to  end  it  well.  He  was 
prepared  to  distrust  that  mist.  He  had  seen  many 
mists  break  into  heavy  sunshine.  He  had  also  seen 
many  mists  dissolve  into  heavy  rain.  He  knew  no 
peace  of  mind  till  the  sky  began  to  lighten  just  before 
the  train  reached  Hogstead,  and  he  did  not  feel  se- 
cure till  he  had  changed  into  flannels  and  was  walk- 
ing down  to  the  field  on  Gerald's  arm,  their  shadows 
flung  hard  and  black  upon  the  grass  in  front  of  them. 

It  was  a  delightful  morning;  the  grass  was  fresh 
with  the  dew  which  a  slight  breeze  was  drying;  there 
was  hardly  a  worn  spot  on  the  green  surface,  against 


268  ROLAND  WHATELY 

which  the  white  creases  and  yellow  stumps  stood  in 
vivid  contrast.  An  occasional  cloud  cut  the  sunlight, 
sending  its  shadow  in  long  ripples  of  smoke  across 
.the  field. 

"And  to  think,"  said  Gerald,  "that  this  is  our  last 
game  this  season." 

But  for  Roland  this  certainly  marred  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  blue  sky  and  the  bright  sunshine.  "This 
is  the  last  time,"  he  repeated  to  himself.  For  eight 
months  the  green  field,  so  gay  now  with  the  white 
figures  moving  in  the  sunlight,  would  be  desolate. 
Leaves  would  be  blown  on  to  it  from  the  trees;  rain 
would  fall  on  them.  The  windows  of  the  pavilion 
would  be  barred,  the  white  screens  stacked  in  the 
shelter  of  a  wall. 

After  his  innings  he  sat  beside  Muriel  in  the  deck- 
chair  on  the  shaded,  northern  terrace.  But  he  felt 
too  sad  to  talk  to  her  and  she  complained  of  his 
silence. 

"I  don't  think  much  of  you  as  a  companion,"  she 
said.  "I've  timed  you.  You  haven't  said  a  word  for 
ten  minutes." 

He  laughed,  apologized  and  endeavored  to  revert 
to  the  simple  badinage  that  had  amused  them  when 
Muriel  was  a  little  girl  in  short  frocks,  with  her  hair 
blowing  about  her  neck,  but  it  was  not  particularly 
successful,  and  it  was  a  relief  when  Gerald  placed  his 
chair  on  the  other  side  of  Muriel  and  commenced  a 
running  commentary  on  the  game.  Roland  wanted 
to  be  alone  with  his  thoughts.  Occasionally  a  stray 
phrase  or  sentence  of  their  conversation  percolated 
through  his  reverie. 

"What  a  glorious  afternoon  it's  going  to  be,"  he 
heard  Muriel  say.  "It  seems  quite  absurd  that  this 
should  be  your  last  game.  One  can't  believe  that  the 


THREE  DAYS  269 

summer's  over.  On  a  day  like  this  it  looks  as  though 
it  would  last  forever!" 

The  words  beat  themselves  into  his  brain.  It  was 
over  and  it  was  absurd  to  dream.  The  autumn  sun- 
shine that  had  lured  her  into  disbelief  of  the  approach 
of  winter  had  made  him  forget  that  this  day  at  Hog- 
stead  was  his  last.  By  next  year  he  would  be  mar- 
ried; the  delightful  interlude  would  be  finished.  He 
would  have  passed  from  the  life  of  Hogstead,  at  any 
rate  in  his  present  position.  If  he  returned  it  would 
be  different.  The  continuity  would  have  been  broken. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Muriel's  profile ;  how  pretty  she  was ;  quite  a  woman 
now ;  and  he  turned  his  chair  a  little  so  that  he  could 
observe  her  without  moving  his  head.  Yes,  she  was 
really  pretty  in  her  delicate  porcelain  fashion;  she 
was  not  beautiful.  But,  then,  beauty  was  too  austere. 
Charm  was  preferable.  And  she  had  that  charm  that 
depends  almost  entirely  on  its  setting,  on  a  dress  that 
is  in  keeping  with  small  dainty  features.  The  least 
little  thing  wrong  and  she  would  have  been  quite  or- 
dinary. 

What  would  happen  to  her?  She  would  marry,  of 
course;  she  would  find  no  lack  of  suitors.  Already, 
perhaps,  there  was  one  whom  she  had  begun  slightly 
to  favor.  What  would  he  be  like?  To  what  sort  of 
a  man  would  she  be  attracted?  Whoever  he  was  he 
would  be  a  lucky  fellow ;  and  Roland  paused  to  won- 
der whether,  if  things  had  been  different,  if  he  had 
been  free  when  he  had  met  her  first,  she  could  have 
come  to  care  for  him.  She  had  always  liked  him. 
He  remembered  many  little  occasions  on  which  she 
had  said  things  that  he  might  have  construed  into  a 
meaning  favorable  to  himself.  There  had  been  that 
evening  on  the  stairs  when  they  had  felt  suddenly 


270  ROLAND  WHATELY 

frightened  of  each  other,  and  since  then,  more  than 
once,  he  had  fancied  that  they  had  stumbled  in  their 
anxiety  to  make  impersonal  conversation. 

How  happy  they  would  have  been  together.  They 
would  have  lived  together  at  Hogstead  all  their  lives, 
a  part  of  the  Marston  family.  Hammerton  would 
have  ceased  to  exist  for  him.  They  would  have  built 
themselves  a  cottage  on  the  edge  of  the  estate ;  their 
children  would  have  passed  their  infancy  among  green 
fields,  within  sound  of  cricket  balls. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  field,  on  the  southern  terrace, 
Beatrice  was  sitting  alone,  watching  Rosemary  play  a 
few  yards  away  from  her.  She  must  have  been  there 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  morning,  but  Roland 
had  not  noticed  her  till  she  waved  a  hand  to  attract 
his  attention.  He  rose  at  once  and  walked  across  to 
her.  He  felt  that  a  talk  with  her  would  do  him 
good. 

They  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  each  other  inter- 
mittently during  the  past  three  years,  and  each  talk 
with  her  had  been  for  Roland  a  step  farther  into  the 
heart  of  a  mystery.  Gradually  they  had  come  to 
talk  in  shorthand,  to  read  each  other's  thoughts  with- 
out need  of  the  accepted  medium  of  words,  so  that 
when  in  reply  to  a  complimentary  remark  about  the 
fascination  of  her  hat  she  made  a  quiet  shrug  of  her 
shoulders,  he  knew  that  it  was  prompted  by  the  wound 
of  her  wasted  beauty.  And  on  that  late  summer 
morning,  with  its  solemn  warning  of  decay,  Roland 
felt  brave  enough  to  put  to  her  the  question  that  he 
had  long  wished  to  ask. 

"Why  did  you  marry  him?"  he  said. 

His  question  necessitated  no  break  in  the  rhythm 
of  her  reverie.  She  answered  him  without  pausing. 

"I  didn't  know  my  own  mind,"  she  said.    "I  was 


THREE  DAYS  271 

very  young.  I  wasn't  in  love  with  anyone  else.  My 
mother  was  keen  on  it.  I  gave  way." 

Beatrice  spoke  the  truth.  Her  mother  had  honestly 
believed  the  match  to  be  to  her  daughter's  advan- 
tage. Her  own  life  had  been  made  difficult  through 
lack  of  money.  She  had  always  been  worried  by  it, 
and  she  had  naturally  come  to  regard  money  as  more 
important  than  the  brief  fluttering  of  emotion  that 
had  been  the  prelude  to  the  long,  bitter  struggle.  It 
had  seemed  to  her  a  wonderful  thing  that  her  daugh- 
ter should  marry  this  rich  man.  Herself  had  only 
been  unhappy  because  she  had  been  poor ;  her  daugh- 
ter would  be  always  rich. 

"How  did  you  meet  him?"  Roland  asked. 

"I  was  his  secretary.  Romantic,  isn't  it?  The 
poor  girl  marries  the  rich  employer.  Quite  like  the 
story  books."  And  her  hands  fluttered  at  her  sides. 

Roland  sought  for  some  word  of  sympathy,  but  he 
was  too  appalled  by  the  cruel  waste  of  this  young 
woman's  beauty,  of  her  enormous  potentialities  flung 
away  on  an  ageing,  withered  man,  who  could  not  ap- 
preciate them.  Her  next  sentence  held  for  him  the 
force  of  a  prophetic  utterance. 

"When  you  marry,  Roland,"  she  said,  "choose  your 
own  wife.  Don't  let  your  parents  dictate  to  you.  It's 
your  affair." 

As  their  eyes  met  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  were 
victims  of  the  same  conspiracy. 

"One  can't  believe  that  the  summer  is  over  on  a 
day  like  this.  It  looks  as  though  it  would  last  for- 
ever!" The  words  ran  like  a  refrain  among  his 
thoughts  all  the  afternoon.  He  had  a  long  outing. 
Hogstead  had  imported  for  the  final  match  talent  that 
was  considerable  but  was  not  local.  The  doctor  had 
persuaded  a  friend  to  bring  his  son,  a  member  of  the 


272  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Rugby  XI.  It  was  discovered  that  an  old  blue  was 
spending  his  honeymoon  in  a  farmhouse  a  few  miles 
away  and  a  deputation  had  been  dispatched  to  him; 
while,  at  the  last  moment,  the  greengrocer  had  ar- 
ranged a  compromise  on  a  "to  account  rendered"  bill 
with  a  professional  at  the  county  ground.  Hogstead 
was  far  too  strong  for  Mr.  Marston's  side  and  all 
the  afternoon  Roland  chased  terrific  off  drives  towards 
the  terraces.  The  more  tired  he  became  the  deeper 
grew  his  depression.  The  sun  sank  slowly  towards 
the  long,  low-lying  bank  of  cloud  that  stretched  be- 
hind the  roofs  of  the  village;  the  day  was  waning, 
his  last  day.  Came  that  hour  of  luminous  calm,  that 
last  hour  of  sunlight  when  the  shadows  lengthen  and 
a  chilling  air  drives  old  players  to  the  pavilion  for 
their  sweaters.  Above  the  trees  Roland  could  see 
the  roof  of  the  house;  the  trees  swayed  before  its 
windows;  the  sunlight  had  caught  and  had  turned 
the  brass  weathercock  to  gold.  Never  again,  under 
the  same  conditions,  would  he  see  Hogstead  as  he  in 
the  past  had  so  often  seen  it,  standing  above  the 
trees,  resplendent  in  the  last  glitter  of  sunset.  It 
was  only  five  years  ago  that  he  had  come  here  for  the 
first  time,  and  yet  into  those  five  years  had  been 
crowded  a  greater  measure  of  happiness  than  he 
could  hope  to  find  in  the  fifty  years  that  were  left 
him. 

At  the  end  of  the  day  Mr.  Marston's  eleven  had 
half  an  hour's  batting,  during  which  Roland  made  one 
or  two  big  hits.  But  it  was  an  anticlimax,  and  his  in- 
nings brought  him  little  satisfaction.  It  was  over 
now.  He  walked  back  to  the  pavilion,  and  with  dis- 
mal efficiency  collected  his  boots  and  bat  and  pads  and 
packed  them  into  his  bag.  What  would  he  be  like 
when  he  came  to  do  that  next?  What  would  have 


THREE  DAYS  273 

happened  to  him  between  then  and  now?  He  came 
out  of  the  pavilion  to  find  Muriel  standing  on  the 
step,  waiting,  presumably,  for  her  brother.  The  need 
for  sympathy,  for  feminine  sympathy,  overwhelmed 
him,  and  he  asked  her  whether  she  would  come  for 
a  walk  with  him — only  a  short  stroll,  just  for  a  min- 
ute or  two.  She  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"But  it's  so  late,  Roland,"  she  said;  "well  have 
to  go  and  change  for  dinner  in  a  minute." 

"I  know,  I  know,  but  just  for  a  minute — do." 

He  was  not  ready  yet  for  the  general  talk  and 
laughter  of  the  drawing-room ;  he  wanted  a  few  min- 
utes of  preparation. 

"Do  come,"  he  said. 

She  nodded,  and  they  turned  and  walked  together 
towards  the  end  of  the  cricket  ground.  She  did  not 
know  why  he  should  want  her  to  come  with  him  at 
such  an  unusual  time,  but  she  could  see  that  he  was 
unhappy,  that  he  needed  sympathy,  and  so,  after  a 
second's  hesitation,  she  passed,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  her  arm  through  his.  He  looked  at  her 
quickly,  a  look  of  surprise  and  gratitude,  and  pressed 
her  arm  with  his.  He  said  nothing,  now  that  she  was 
with  him.  He  did  not  feel  any  need  of  words ;  it  was 
her  presence  he  wanted,  and  all  that  her  presence 
meant  to  him.  But  she,  being  ignorant  of  what  was 
in  his  mind,  was  embarrassed  by  his  silence. 

"That  was  a  jolly  knock  of  yours,"  she  said 
at  last. 

"Oh!  not  bad,  but  in  a  second  innings!" 

"Rather  like  that  one  of  yours  five  years  ago." 

"What!    Do  you  remember  that?" 

"Of  course;  it  was  a  great  occasion." 

"For  me." 

"And  for  us." 


274  ROLAND  WHATELY 

The  past  and  the  emotions  of  the  past  returned  to 
him  with  a  startling  vividness.  He  could  recall  every 
moment  of  that  day. 

"I  was  so  anxious  to  come  off,"  he  said.  "You 
know  I  was  to  have  gone  into  a  bank  and  Gerald 
brought  me  down  in  the  hope  that  your  pater  would 
take  to  me.  I  was  frightfully  nervous." 

"So  was  I." 

"But  you'd  never  seen  me." 

"No,  but  Gerald  had  talked  to  me  about  you,  and 
I  thought  it  such  rotten  luck  that  a  fellow  like  you 
should  have  to  go  into  a  bank.  There'd  been  a  row, 
hadn't  there?" 

They  had  reached  the  hedge  that  marked  the  bound- 
ary for  the  Marston  estate;  there  was  a  gate  in  it, 
and  they  walked  towards  it.  They  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment, her  arm  still  hi  his,  looking  at  the  quiet  village 
that  lay  before  them.  Then  Roland  dropped  her  arm 
and  leaned  against  the  gate. 

"Yes,  there'd  been  a  row,"  he  said,  "and  every- 
thing was  going  wrong,  and  I  saw  myself  for  the  rest 
of  my  life  a  clerk  adding  up  figures  in  a  bank." 

He  paused,  realizing  the  analogy  between  that  day 
and  this.  Then,  as  now,  destiny  had  seemed  to  be 
closing  in  on  him,  robbing  him  of  freedom  and  the 
chance  to  make  of  his  life  anything  but  a  gray  sub- 
servience. He  had  evaded  destiny  then,  but  it  had 
caught  him  now.  And  he  leaned  on  the  gate,  hardly 
seeing  the  laborers  trudging  up  the  village  street, 
talking  in  the  porch  of  the  public-house ;  their  women 
returning  home  with  their  purchases  for  Sunday's 
dinner. 

Again  Muriel  was  oppressed  by  his  silence. 

"I  remember  Gerald  telling  us  about  it,"  she  said, 
"and  I  was  excited  to  see  what  you'd  be  like." 


THREE  DAYS  275 

"And  what  did  you  think  of  me  when  you  saw  me?" 

"Oh,  I  was  a  little  girl  then";  she  laughed  ner- 
vously, for  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  face  and  she 
felt  that  she  was  blushing. 

"Yes,  but  what  did  you  think?"  he  repeated;  "tell 
me." 

Her  fingers  plucked  nervously  at  her  skirt;  she  felt 
frightened,  and  it  was  absurd  to  be  frightened  with 
Roland,  one  of  her  oldest  friends. 

"Oh,  it's  silly !  I  was  only  a  little  girl  then.  What 
does  it  matter  what  I  thought?  As  a  matter  of  fact," 
and  she  flung  out  the  end  of  her  confession  carelessly, 
as  though  it  meant  nothing,  "as  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
thought  you  were  the  most  wonderful  boy  I'd  ever 
seen."  And  she  tried  to  laugh  a  natural,  off-hand 
laugh  that  would  make  an  end  of  this  absurd  situa- 
tion, but  the  laugh  caught  in  her  throat,  and  she  went 
suddenly  still,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Roland's.  They 
looked  at  each  other  and  read  fear  in  the  other's 
eyes,  but  in  Roland's  eyes  fear  was  mingled  with  a 
desperate  entreaty,  a  need,  an  overmastering  need  of 
her.  His  tongue  seemed  too  big  for  his  mouth,  and 
when  at  last  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  dry. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  me  now?" 

She  could  say  nothing.  She  stood  still,  held  by  the 
gray  eyes  that  never  wavered. 

"What  do  you  think  of  me  now?"  he  repeated. 

She  made  a  movement  to  break  the  tension,  a  swift 
gesture  with  her  hand  that  was  intended  for  a  dis- 
missal, but  he  was  standing  so  close  that  her  hand 
brushed  against  him;  she  gave  a  little  gasp  as  his 
hand  closed  over  it  and  held  it. 

"You  won't  tell  me,"  he  said.  "But  shall  I  tell 
you  what  I  thought  of  you  then?  Shall  I  tell  you? 
I  thought  you  were  the  prettiest  girl  I  had  ever  seen, 


276  ROLAND  WHATELY 

and  I  thought  how  beautiful  you  would  be  when  you 
grew  up." 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  silly,  Roland,"  and  she  laughed  a 
short,  nervous  laugh,  and  tried  to  draw  her  hand  from 
his,  but  he  held  it  firmly,  and  drew  her  a  little  nearer 
to  him,  so  that  he  could  take  her  other  hand  in  his. 
They  stood  close  together,  then  she  raised  her  face 
slowly  to  his  and  the  puzzled,  wistful,  trusting  expres- 
sion released  the  flood  of  sentiment  that  had  been 
surging  within  him  all  the  afternoon.  His  misery  was 
no  longer  master  of  itself,  and  her  beauty  drew  to  it 
the  mingled  tenderness,  hesitation,  disappointment 
of  his  vexed  spirit.  She  was  for  him  in  that  moment 
the  composite  vision  of  all  he  prized  most  highly  in 
life,  of  romance,  mystery,  adventure. 

His  hands  closed  upon  hers  tightly,  desperately,  as 
though  he  would  rivet  himself  to  the  one  thing  of 
which  he  could  be  certain,  and  his  confused  intense 
emotion  poured  forth  in  a  stream  of  eager  avowal : 

"But  I  never  thought,  Muriel,  that  you  would  be 
anything  like  what  you  are;  you  are  wonderful, 
Muriel;  I've  been  realizing  it  slowly  every  day.  I've 
said  to  myself  that  we  were  only  friends,  just  friends, 
but  I've  known  it  was  more  than  friendship.  I've  told 
myself  not  to  be  silly,  that  you  could  never  care  for 
me — well,  I've  never  realized,  not  properly,  not  till 
this  afternoon,  Muriel." 

She  was  no  longer  frightened ;  his  words  had  soothed 
her,  caressed  her,  wooed  her ;  and  when  he  paused,  the 
expression  of  her  eyes  was  fearless. 

"Yes,  Roland,"  she  said. 

"Muriel,  Muriel,  I  love  you ;  I  want  you  to  marry 
me.  Will  you?" 

She  blushed  prettily.  "But,  Roland,  you  know;  if 
father  and  mother  say  yes,  of  course." 


THREE  DAYS  277 

In  the  sudden  release  of  feeling  he  was  uncertain 
what  exactly  was  expected  of  a  person  whose  pro- 
posal had  been  accepted.  They  were  on  the  brink  of 
another  embarrassed  silence,  but  Muriel  saved  them. 

"Roland,"  she  said,  "you're  hurting  my  fingers 
awfully!" 

With  a  laugh  he  dropped  her  hands,  and  that  laugh 
restored  them  to  their  former  intimacy. 

"Oh,  Roland,"  she  said,  "what  fun  we  shall  have 
when  we  are  married." 

He  asked  whether  she  thought  her  parents  would 
be  pleased,  and  she  was  certain  that  they  would. 

"They  like  you  so  much."  Then  she  insisted  on 
his  telling  when  and  how  he  had  first  discovered  that 
he  was  in  love  with  her.  "Come  along;  let's  sit. on 
the  gate  and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  it.  Now,  when 
was  the  first  time,  the  very  first  time,  that  you 
thought  you  were  in  love  with  me?" 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  know." 

"Yes,  you  do;  you  must,  of  course  you  must,  or 
you'd  be  nothing  of  a  lover.  Come  on,  or  I  shall  take 
back  my  promise." 

"Well,  then,  that  evening  on  the  stairs." 

Muriel  pouted. 

"Oh,  then!" 

"Do  you  remember  it?"  he  said. 

"Of  course  I  do.    You  frightened  me." 

"I  know,  and  that's  why  I  thought  that  one  day 
you  might  marry  me." 

"Oh,  but  how  silly!"  she  protested.  "I  wasn't  a 
bit  in  love  with  you  then.  In  fact,  I  was  very  an- 
noyed with  you." 

"And,  besides,  I  think  I've  always  been  in  love  with 
you." 

"Oh,  no,  you  haven't." 


278  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Don't  be  too  sure.    And  you?" 

She  smiled  prettily. 

"I've  often  thought  what  a  nice  husband  you  would 
make." 

And  then  she  had  taken  his  hand  in  her  lap  and 
played  with  it. 

"And  where  shall  we  live  when  we  are  married?" 
he  had  asked  her,  and  she  had  said  she  did  not  care. 

"Anywhere,  as  long  as  there  are  lots  of  people  to 
amuse  me." 

She  sat  there  on  the  gate,  her  light  hair  blowing 
under  the  wide  brim  of  her  hat,  laughing  down  at  him, 
her  face  bright  with  happiness.  She  was  so  small, 
so  graceful.  Light  as  heatherdown,  she  would  run  a 
gay  motif  through  the  solemn  movement  of  his  ca- 
reer. 

"You  are  like  a  fairy,"  he  said,  "like  a  mischievous 
little  elf.  I  think  I  shall  call  you  tha1>— Elfkin." 

"Oh,  what  a  pretty  name,  Roland — Elfkin!  How 
sweet  of  you!" 

They  talked  so  eagerly  together  of  the  brilliant 
future  that  awaited  them  that  they  quite  forgot  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  till  they  heard  across  the  eve- 
ning the  dull  boom  of  the  dinner  gong.  They  both 
gasped  and  looked  at  each  other  as  confederates  in 
guilt. 

"Heavens!"  she  said,  "what  a  start.  We've  got  to 
run!" 

It  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a  dramatic  entrance 
that  Roland  ever  achieved.  Muriel  kept  level  with 
him  during  the  race  across  the  cricket  ground,  but  she 
began  to  fall  behind  as  they  reached  the  long  terrace 
between  the  rhododendrons. 

"Take  hold  of  my  hand,"  said  Roland,  and  he 
dragged  her  over  the  remaining  thirty  yards.  They 


THREE  DAYS  279 

rushed  through  the  big  French  windows  of  the 
drawing-room  at  the  very  moment  that  the  party  had 
assembled  there  before  going  down  to  dinner.  They 
had  quite  forgotten  that  there  would  be  an  audience. 
They  stopped,  and  Muriel  gave  out  a  horrified  gasp 
of  "Oh!" 

They  certainly  were  a  ridiculous  couple  as  they 
stood  there  hand  in  hand,  hot,  disheveled,  out  of 
breath,  beside  that  well-groomed  company  of  men 
and  women  in  evening  dress.  Mrs.  Marston  hurried 
forward  with  the  slightly  deprecating  manner  of  the 
hostess  whose  plans  have  been  disturbed. 

"My  dear  children "  But  Muriel  had  by  this 

time  recovered  her  breath  and  courage.  She  raised  a 
peremptory  hand. 

"One  minute.  We've  got  something  to  tell  you  all." 

"But  surely,  dear,  after  dinner,"  Mrs.  Marston 
began. 

"No,  mother,  dear,  now,"  and,  with  a  twinkle  in 
her  eye  and  a  sly  glance  at  her  embarrassed  lover, 
Muriel  made  her  alarming  announcement: 

"Roland  and  I,  mother,  we're  going  to  be  married." 

Roland  had  seen  in  a  French  novel  a  startling  in- 
cident of  domestic  revelation  recorded  by  two  words: 
consternation  generate,  and  those  two  words  suited 
the  terrible  hush  that  followed  Muriel's  confession. 
It  was  not  a  hush  of  anger,  or  disapproval,  but  of 
utter  and  complete  astonishment.  For  a  few  minutes 
no  one  said  anything.  The  young  men  of  the  party 
either  adjusted  their  collar  studs  and  gazed  towards 
the  ceiling,  or  flicked  a  speck  of  dust  from  their  trous- 
ers and  gazed  upon  the  floor.  The  young  women 
gazed  upon  each  other.  Mrs.  Marston  thought  ner- 
vously of  the  condition  of  the  retarded  dinner,  and 
Mr.  Marston  tried,  without  success,  to  prove  ade- 


280  ROLAND  WHATELY 

quate  to  the  situation.  Only  Muriel  enjoyed  it;  she 
loved  a  rag,  and  her  eyes  passed  from  one  figure  to 
another;  not  one  of  them  dared  look  at  her. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "we  did  think  you'd  want 
to  congratulate  us."  To  Mr.  Marston  some  criticism 
of  himself  appeared  to  be  implied  in  this  remark.  He 
pulled  down  his  waistcoat,  coughed,  and  went  through 
the  preliminaries  usual  to  him  when  preparing  to  ad- 
dress the  board.  And,  in  a  sense,  this  was  a  board 
meeting,  a  family  board  meeting. 

"My  dear  Muriel,"  he  began,  but  he  had  advanced 
no  further  than  these  three  words  when  the  dinner 
gong  sounded  for  the  second  time.  It  was  a  signal  for 
Mrs.  Marston  to  bustle  forward. 

"Yes,  yes,  but  the  dinner'll  be  getting  quite  cold  if 
we  don't  go  in  at  once.  Don't  trouble  to  change,  Mr. 
Whately,  please  don't;  but,  Muriel,  you  must  go  up 
and  do  your  hair,  and  if  you  have  time  change  your 
frock." 

"Weren't  they  lovely?"  said  Muriel,  as  she  and 
Roland  ran  upstairs  to  wash.  "I  could  have  died  with 
laughter." 

"You  made  me  feel  a  pretty  complete  fool,"  said 
Roland. 

"Well,  you  made  me  feel  very  silly  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  ago.  I  deserved  a  revenge."  And 
she  scampered  upstairs  ahead  of  him. 

Roland  washed  quickly  and  waited  for  her  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.  He  was  much  too  shy  to  go  in 
alone. 

"And  they  say  that  women  are  cowards,"  said 
Muriel,  when  he  confessed  it  to  her.  "Come  along." 

The  quarter  of  an  hour  that  had  elapsed  since  the 
sensational  disclosure  had  given  the  company  time  to 
recover  its  balance,  and  when  Muriel  and  Roland  en- 


THREE  DAYS  281 

tered  the  room,  they  found  that  two  empty  seats  were 
waiting  for  them  side  by  side. 

"Here  they  are,"  said  Mr.  Marston,  "and  I  hope  that 
they're  thoroughly  ashamed  of  themselves."  He  felt 
himself  again  after  a  glass  of  sherry,  and  it  was  an 
occasion  of  which  a  father  should  make  the  most. 
It  could  only  come  once  and  he  was  prepared  to  en- 
joy it  to  the  full.  "To  think  of  it,  my  dear,  the  dif- 
ference between  this  generation  and  ours.  Why, 
before  I  got  engaged  to  your  mother,  Muriel,  why, 
even  before  I  began  to  court  her,  I  went  and  asked 
her  father's  permission.  I  can  remember  now  how 
frightened  I  felt.  We  respected  our  parents  in  those 
days.  We  always  asked  their  opinions  first.  But 
to-day — why,  in  you  burst,  late  for  dinner,  and  an- 
nounce with  calm  effrontery  that  you're  going  to  be 
married.  Why,  at  this  rate,  there  won't  be  any  en- 
gagements at  all  in  a  short  time;  young  people  will 
just  walk  in  at  the  front  door  and  say:  'We're 
married.' ' 

"Then  we  are  engaged,  father,  aren't  we?"  said 
Muriel. 

"I  didn't  say  so." 

"Oh,  but  you  did;  didn't  he,  Roland?" 

Roland  was,  however,  too  confused  to  hold  any 
opinion  on  the  subject. 

"Well,  if  you  didn't  actually  say  so  you  implied  it. 
At  any  rate  we  shall  take  it  that  you  did." 

"And  that,  I  suppose,  settles  it?" 

"Of  course." 

Mr.  Marston  made  a  theatrical  gesture  of  despair. 

"These  children!"  he  said. 

It  was  a  jolly  evening.  Roland  and  Muriel  were  the 
center  of  congratulations;  their  healths  were  drunk; 
he  was  called  on  for  a  speech,  and  he  fulfilled  his  duty 


282  ROLAND  WHATELY 

amid  loud  applause.  Everyone  was  so  pleased,  so  eager 
to  share  their  happiness.  Beatrice  had  turned  to 
him  a  smile  of  surprised  congratulation.  Only  Gerald 
held  back  from  the  general  enthusiasm.  Once  across 
the  table  his  eyes  met  Roland's,  and  there  was  im- 
plied in  their  glance  a  question.  He  was  the  only  one 
of  the  party  who  had  heard  of  April,  and  never,  in 
all  their  confidences,  had  there  passed  between  them 
one  word  that  might  have  hinted  at  a  growing  love 
between  his  sister  and  his  friend;  it  was  this  that 
surprised  him.  Surely  Roland  would  have  told  him 
something  about  it.  Roland  was  not  the  sort  of  fel- 
low who  kept  things  to  himself.  He  always  wanted 
to  share  his  pleasures.  Gerald  would  have  indeed 
expected  him  to  come  to  him  for  advice,  to  say: 
"Old  son,  what  chance  do  you  think  I  stand  in  that 
direction?" — to  entrust  him  with  the  delicate  mission 
of  sounding  Muriel's  inclinations.  He  was  surprised 
and  a  little  hurt. 

As  they  were  going  towards  the  drawing-room  after 
dinner  he  laid  his  hand  on  Roland's  arm,  holding  him 
back  for  a  minute.  And  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway 
waiting  for  his  friend,  Roland  felt  for  the  first  time  a 
twinge  of  apprehension  as  to  the  outcome  of  this 
undertaking.  But  he  could  see  that  Gerald  was  ner- 
vous, and  this  nervousness  of  his  lent  Roland  con- 
fidence. 

"It's  no  business  of  mine,  old  son,"  Gerald  began, 
"I'm  awfully  glad  about  you  and  Muriel  and  all  that, 
but,"  he  paused  irresolute ;  he  disliked  these  theatrical 
situations  and  did  not  know  how  to  meet  them.  "I 
mean,"  he  began  slowly,  then  added  quietly,  anx- 
iously: "It's  all  right,  isn't  it,  old  son?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Roland.  "It's  the  most  won- 
derful  " 


THREE  DAYS  283 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Gerald  interrupted,  "but  wasn't 
there,  didn't  you  tell  me  about— 

"Oh,  that's  finished  a  long  time  ago.  Don't  worry 
about  that." 

"You  see,"  Gerald  went  on,  "I  should  hate  to 
think—  Oh,  well,  I'm  awfully  glad  about  it,  and 
I  think  you're  both  fearfully  lucky." 

Two  hours  later  Roland  and  Muriel  stood  on  the 
landing  saying  good-night  to  one  another.  She  was 
leaning  towards  him,  across  the  banisters,  as  she  had 
leaned  that  evening  three  years  earlier,  but  this  time 
he  held  her  hand  in  his. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  happy  I  am,"  he  was  saying; 
"I  shall  dream  of  you  all  night  long." 

"And  so  shall  I  of  you." 

"We're  going  to  be  wonderfully  happy,  aren't  we?" 

"Wonderfully." 

And  in  each  other's  eyes  they  saw  the  eager,  bound- 
less confidence  of  youth.  They  were  going  to  make  a 
great  thing  of  their  life  together.  Roland  cast  a  swift 
glance  over  the  banisters  to  see  if  anyone  was  in  the 
hall,  then  stood  on  tiptoe,  raising  himself  till  his 
face  was  on  the  level  with  Muriel's. 

"Muriel,"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"I  want  to  whisper  something  in  your  ear." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Lean  over,  closer  to  me,  and  I  will  tell  you." 

She  bent  her  head,  her  cheek  brushing  against  his 
hair.  "Well?"  she  said. 

He  placed  his  mouth  close  to  her  ear. 

"Muriel,  you  haven't  kissed  me  yet." 

She  drew  back  and  smiled. 

"Was  that  all?"  she  said. 

"Isn't  it  enough?" 


284  ROLAND  WHATELY 

She  made  no  answer. 

"Aren't  you  going  to?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Please,  please,  do." 

"Some  day  I  will." 

"But  why  not  now?" 

"Someone  would  see  us." 

"Oh,  no,  they  wouldn't.  And  even  if  they  did  what 
would  it  matter?  Muriel!  please,  please,  Muriel!" 

He  raised  himself  again  on  tiptoe ;  and  leaning  for- 
ward, she  rested  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders.  Then 
she  slowly  bent  her  head  to  his,  and  their  lips  met  in 
such  a  kiss  as  children  exchange  for  forfeits  in  the 
nursery.  As  she  drew  back  Roland  slipped  back  again 
on  to  his  heels,  but  he  still  held  her  hand  and  her 
fingers  closed  round  his,  pressing  them,  if  not  with 
passion,  at  least  with  fondness. 

"You're  rather  an  old  dear,  Roland,"  she  said.  And 
there  was  a  note  in  her  voice  that  made  him  say 
quickly  and  half  audibly : 

"And  you're  a  darling." 

She  drew  her  hand  from  his  gently.  "And  what 
was  that  pretty  name  you  called  me?" 

"Elfkin." 

"Let  me  be  always  Elfkin." 

Both  of  them  that  night  were  wooed  to  sleep  by 
the  delight  of  their  new-found  happiness. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    LONELY   UNICORN 

lovers  went  for  a  walk  together  on  Sunday 
morning  through  the  woods  that  lay  beyond  the 
village,  and  they  sat  on  a  pile  of  broken  sticks  that  a 
charcoal  burner  had  collected  for  a  fire,  and  they  held 
hands  and  talked  of  the  future.  Her  pleasure  in  this 
new  relationship  was  a  continual  fascination  to 
Roland.  She  regarded  love,  courtship,  and  marriage 
as  a  delightful  game. 

"What  fun  it's  going  to  be,"  she  said;  "we  shall 
announce  our  engagement  and  then  everyone  will 
write  and  congratulate  us,  and  we  shall  have  to  an- 
swer them,  and  I  shall  have  to  pretend  to  be  so  serious 
and  say:  'I  am  much  looking  forward  to  introducing 
you  to  my  fiance.  I  hope  you  will  like  each  other." 

"And  what  sort  of  a  ring  am  I  to  get  you?" 

"The  ring!  Oh,  I  had  forgotten  that.  One  has  to 
have  one,  doesn't  one?  Let's  see  now.  What  should 
I  like?"  And  she  paused,  her  finger  raised  to  her 
lower  lip.  She  remained  for  a  moment  in  perplexed 
consideration,  then  suddenly  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,  just  what  you  like.  Let  it  be  a 
surprise.  But  there's  one  thing,  Roland,  dear — 
promise  me." 

"Yes." 

"You  will  promise,  won't  you?" 

285 


286  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Of  course." 

"Well,  then,  promise  me  you  won't  put  any  writing 
inside  it,  because  I  shall  want  to  show  it  to  my  friends 
and  I  should  feel  so  silly  if  they  saw  it." 

After  lunch  Mr.  Marston  asked  him  to  come  into 
the  study  for  a  talk. 

"I'm  not  going  to  play  the  heavy  father,"  he  said; 
"in  fact,  you  know  yourself  how  thoroughly  pleased 
we  are,  both  of  us,  about  it  all.  We  couldn't  have 
wished  a  better  husband  for  Muriel.  But  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  finance,  and  you've  got,  I  gather,  no 
money  apart  from  what  you  earn  from  us." 

"No,  sir." 

"And  your  salary  now  is ?" 

"Four  hundred  a  year,  sir." 

"And  how  far  do  you  think  that  will  go?  You 
could  start  a  home  with  it,  of  course,  but  do  you  think 
you  could  make  Muriel  happy  with  it?  She's  a  dainty 
little  lady,  and  when  she's  free  from  home  authority 
she  will  want  to  be  going  out  to  dances  and  theaters. 
How  far  do  you  think  four  hundred  will  take  her?" 

"Not  very  far,  sir." 

"Then  what  do  you  propose  to  do?  Long  engage- 
ments are  a  bad  thing." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  think  of  doing?" 

Roland,  who  had  expected  Mr.  Marston  to  make  his 
daughter  a  generous  dress  allowance,  was  uncertain 
how  to  answer  this  question.  Indeed,  he  made  no 
attempt. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Marston,  "that  what  you 
were  really  thinking  was  that  I  should  make  you  some 
allowance." 

Roland  blushed,  and  began  to  stammer  that,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  that  was  exactly  what — but  he  never 


THE  LONELY  UNICORN  287 

finished  the  sentence,  for  Mr.  Marston  interrupted 
him. 

"Because,  if  that's  what  you  were  thinking,  young 
man,  I  can  disillusion  you  at  once.  I  don't  believe  in 
allowances;  they  put  a  young  couple  under  an  obli- 
gation to  their  parents.  And  that's  bad.  A  young 
couple  should  be  independent.  No!"  he  said,  "I'm 
not  going  to  make  Muriel  any  allowance,  but,"  and 
here  he  paused  theatrically,  so  as  to  make  the  most  of 
his  point,  "I  am  going  to  give  you  a  good  opportunity 
of  making  yourself  independent.  I  am  going  to  offer 
to  both  you  and  Gerald  junior  partnerships  in  the 
business." 

Roland  gave  a  start;  he  could  scarcely  believe  what 
he  had  heard. 

"But,  sir—     "  he  began. 

"Yes,  a  partnership  in  our  business,  and  I  can't  say 
how  pleased  I  shall  be  to  have  you  there,  and  how 
proud  I  am  to  have  a  son-in-law  who  will  want  to 
work  and  not  be  content  to  attend  an  occasional 
board  meeting  and  draw  large  fees  for  doing  so.  I 
know  a  business  man  when  I  meet  one.  We  are  jolly 
lucky  to  have  got  you,  and  as  for  you  and  Muriel, 
well,  honestly,  I  don't  know  which  of  you  is  luckier!" 

They  were  the  same  words  that  Gerald  had  used, 
and  he  was  convinced  of  their  truth  five  minutes  later 
when  he  sat  in  the  drawing-room  pouring  out  this 
exciting  news  to  Muriel,  when  he  saw  her  eyes  light 
with  enthusiasm,  and  heard  her  say  on  a  note  of  genu- 
ine comradeship  and  admiration :  "Roland,  I  always 
knew  it.  You're  a  wonderful  boy!" 

This  state  of  rapture  lasted  till  he  said  good-night 
to  Gerald  on  Monday  evening  in  the  doorway  of  the 
office.  Then,  and  then  only,  did  he  realize  to  what  a 
series  of  complications  he  had  delivered  himself.  He 


288  ROLAND  WHATELY 

had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  regarding  his  life  at  Hog- 
stead  and  his  life  at  Hammerton  as  two  separate  en- 
tities ;  what  happened  to  him  in  one  life  did  not  affect 
him  in  the  other.  Hogstead  had  been  his  dream 
country.  During  the  week-end  he  had  retreated 
within  his  dream,  flung  up  bulwarks,  garrisoned  him- 
self securely.  He  had  not  realized  that,  when  he 
returned  to  Hammerton,  he  would  have  to  deliver  an 
account  of  himself.  So  far,  what  had  happened  in 
that  dream  country  had  only  mattered  to  himself. 
His  engagement  to  Muriel,  however,  involved  the 
fortunes  of  persons  other  than  himself,  and  this  fact 
was  presented  to  him  acutely  as  he  sat  on  top  of  a  bus 
and  drew  nearer,  minute  by  minute,  to  No.  105 
Hammerton  Villas. 

In  the  course  of  seventy-two  hours  he  had  com- 
pletely altered  the  direction  of  his  life.  He  had  left 
home  on  Saturday  morning  with  every  intention  of 
proposing  definitely  to  April  at  the  first  opportunity 
and  of  marrying  her  as  soon  as  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments could  be  made.  Yet  here  he  was  on  Monday 
evening  returning  home  the  fiance  of  Muriel  Marston 
and  a  junior  partner  in  her  father's  firm.  He  could 
not  imagine  in  what  spirit  the  news  would  be  re- 
ceived. His  parents  knew  little  enough  of  Gerald 
and  his  father;  they  were  hardly  aware  of  Muriel's 
existence.  Years  earlier  he  may  have  said,  perhaps, 
in  reply  to  some  casual  query:  "Oh,  yes,  he's  got  a 
sister,  much  younger  than  himself,  a  jolly  kid!"  But 
of  late,  nothing.  He  did  not  see  either  how  he  was  to 
introduce  the  subject.  He  would  be  asked  hardly  any 
questions  about  his  holiday;  he  had  always  been 
uncommunicative. 

"Have  you  had  a  nice  time,  my  dear?" 

That's  what  his  mother  would  say,  in  the  same 


THE  LONELY  UNICORN  289 

indifferent  tone  that  she  would  say  "Good  morning, 
how  do  you  do?"  to  a  casual  acquaintance.  She 
would  then  proceed  to  tell  him  about  the  visitors  they 
had  received  on  Sunday. 

His  father  would  arrive,  lay  down  his  evening  paper 
on  the  table  and  begin  to  change  his  boots. 

"So  you're  back  all  right,  Roland?"  That  would 
be  his  only  reference  to  his  son's  holidays  before  he 
plunged  into  a  commentary  on  the  state  of  the  bus 
service,  the  country  and  the  restaurant  where  he  had 
lunched. 

"Coming  for  a  walk,  Roland?"  That  would  be  his 
next  indication  that  he  was  conscious  of  his  son's 
presence,  and  on  the  receipt  of  an  affirmation  he 
would  trudge  upstairs,  to  reappear  ten  minutes  later 
in  a  light  gray  suit. 

"Ready,  my  son?"  And  they  would  walk  along 
the  High  Street  till  they  reached  the  corner  of  Upper 
College  Road.  There  Mr.  Whately  would  pause. 
"Well,  Roland,  shall  we  go  in  and  see  April?"  And 
in  reality  the  question  would  be  an  assertion.  They 
would  have  to  go  into  the  Curtises';  it  would  be 
terrible.  He  would  feel  like  Judas  Iscariot  at  the  Last 
Supper.  He  would  be  received  by  Mrs.  Curtis  as  a 
future  son-in-law.  April  would  smile  on  him  as  her 
betrothed.  Whatever  he  did  or  said  he  could  not,  in 
her  eyes,  be  anything  but  perfidious,  disloyal,  treach- 
erous. He  would  be  unable  to  make  clear  to  her  the 
inevitable  nature  of  what  had  happened. 

The  red  roofs  and  stucco  fronts  of  Donnington  had 
by  now  receded  into  the  distance ;  the  bus  was  already 
clattering  down  the  main  street  of  Lower  Hammer- 
ton.  The  lights  in  the  shop  windows  had  just  been 
kindled  and  lent  a  touch  of  wistful  poetry  to  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  crowded  pavements,  black  with  the  dark 


290  ROLAND  WHATELY 

coats  of  men  returning  from  their  offices,  with  here 
and  there  a  splash  of  gayety  from  the  dress  of  some 
harassed  woman  hurrying  to  complete  her  shopping 
before  her  husband's  return. 

"In  three  more  minutes  we  shall  be  at  the  Town 
Hall,"  Roland  told  himself.  "In  two  minutes  from 
then  I  shall  have  reached  the  corner  of  Hammerton 
Villas;  105  is  the  third  house  down  on  the  left-hand 
side.  In  six  minutes,  at  the  outside,  I  shall  be  there!" 

And  it  turned  out  exactly  as  he  had  predicted.  He 
found  his  mother  in  the  drawing-room,  turning  the 
handle  of  the  sewing-machine.  She  smiled  as  he 
opened  the  door  and,  as  he  bent  his  head  to  kiss  her, 
expressed  the  hope  that  he  had  enjoyed  himself. 
Three  minutes  later  his  father  arrived. 

"A  most  interesting  murder  case  to-day,  my  dear; 
there's  a  full  account  of  it  in  The  Globe.  It  appears 
that  the  fellow  was  engaged  to  one  girl,  but  was  really 
in  love  with  the  mother  of  the  girl  he  murdered,  and 
he  murdered  the  girl  because  she  seemed  to  suspect — 
no,  that's  not  it.  It  was  the  girl  he  was  engaged  to 
who  suspected ;  but  at  any  rate  you'll  find  it  all  in  The 
Globe — a  most  interesting  case."  And  he  opened  the 
paper  at  the  center  page  and  handed  it  to  his  wife.  As 
he  did  so  his  arm  brushed  against  Roland,  and  the 
forcible  reminder  of  his  son's  existence  inspired  him 
to  express  the  hope  that  the  cricket  at  Hogstead  had 
reached  the  high  expectations  that  had  been  enter- 
tained regarding  it.  This  duty  accomplished,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  describe  in  detail  the  lunch  he  had  selected 
at  the  Spanish  cafe. 

"There  was  a  choice  of  three  things:  you  could 
either  have  hors  d'ceuvre  or  a  soup,  and  then  there 
was  either  omelette  or  fish  or  spaghetti,  with  veal  or 
chicken  or  mutton  to  follow,  and,  of  course,  cheese 


THE  LONELY  UNICORN  291 

to  finish  up  with.  Well,  I  didn't  think  the  spaghetti 
at  that  place  was  very  good,  so  I  was  left  with  a  choice 
of  either  an  omelette  or  fish." 

While  he  was  stating  and  explaining  his  choice  Mr. 
Whately  had  found  time  to  divest  his  feet  of  his  boots. 

"Well,  and  what  about  a  walk,  Roland?" 

"I  suppose  so,  father." 

"Right  you  are.    I'll  just  run  up  and  change." 

Ten  minutes  later,  before  Roland  had  had  time  to 
unravel  the  complicated  psychology  of  the  Norfolk 
murder  case,  Mr.  Whately  was  standing  in  the  door- 
way in  his  gray  tweed  suit  and  straw  hat.  "A  bit  late 
for  a  straw,  perhaps,  but  it's  lovely  weather,  almost 
like  spring.  One  can't  believe  that  summer's  over." 
The  repetition  of  the  phrase  jarred  Roland's  con- 
science. Would  it  not  be  better  to  get  it  off  his  chest 
now,  once  and  for  all,  before  he  was  taken  to  see 
April,  before  that  final  act  of  hypocrisy  was  forced  on 
him? 

"Father,"  he  said,  "there's  something — 

But  Mr.  Whately  did  not  like  to  be  kept  waiting. 

"Come  along,  Roland,  time  enough  for  that  when 
we  are  out  of  doors.  It'll  be  dark  soon." 

And  by  the  time  they  had  reached  the  foot  of  the 
long  flight  of  steps  the  moment  of  desperate  courage 
had  been  followed  by  a  desperate  fear.  Time  enough 
when  he  got  back  to  tell  them.  He  made  no  effort 
even  to  discourage  his  father  when,  at  the  corner  of 
Upper  College  Road,  they  paused  and  the  old  asser- 
tive question  was  asked.  Roland  nodded  his  head 
in  meek  submission.  What  was  to  be  gained  at  this 
point  by  discussion?  There  would  be  enough  tur- 
moil later  on. 

But  he  regretted  his  weakness  five  minutes  later 
when  he  sat  in  the  wicker  chair  by  the  window-seat. 


292  ROLAND  WHATELY 

He  looked  round  the  room  at  the  unaltered  furniture, 
the  unaltered  pictures,  the  unaltered  bookshelves,  and 
Mrs.  Curtis  eternal  in  that  setting,  her  voice  droning 
on  as  it  had  droned  for  him  through  so  many  years. 
There  was  no  change  anywhere.  Mrs.  Curtis  was 
sitting  beside  the  fireplace,  her  knitting  on  her  lap, 
the  bones  of  her  body  projecting  as  awkwardly  as 
ever.  His  father  sat  opposite  her,  his  hat  held  for- 
ward before  his  knees,  his  head  nodding  in  satisfied 
agreement,  his  voice  interrupting  occasionally  the 
movement  of  his  head  with  a  "Yes,  Mrs.  Curtis," 
"Certainly,  Mrs.  Curtis."  And  he  and  April  sat  as  of 
old,  near  and  silent,  in  the  window-seat. 

As  he  looked  at  April,  the  profile  of  her  face 
silhouetted  against  the  window,  an  acute  wave  of 
sentiment  passed  over  him,  reminding  him  of  the 
many  things  they  had  shared  together.  The  first 
twenty  years  of  his  life  belonged  to  her.  It  was  to  her 
that  he  had  turned  in  his  moment  of  success ;  her  faith 
in  him  had  inspired  his  achievements.  She  had 
been  proud  of  him.  He  remembered  how  she  had 
flushed  with  pleasure  when  he  had  told  her  what  the 
school  captain  had  said  to  him  at  the  end  of  the 
season,  and  when  he  had  been  invited  to  the  cricket 
match  at  Hogstead  it  was  of  her  that  he  had  asked 
soft  encouragement,  and  it  was  at  her  feet  that  he  had 
laid,  a  few  days  later,  his  triumph.  How  strange  that 
was,  that  she  should  have  been  the  first  to  hear  of 
Hogstead.  The  wave  of  tenderness  swept  away  every 
little  difference  of  environment  and  personality  that 
had  accumulated  round  their  love  during  the  past 
three  years.  What  a  fine  thing,  after  all,  they  had 
meant  to  make  of  their  life  together.  What  a  con- 
fession of  failure  was  this  parting.  And  when  Mr. 
Whately  rose  to  go,  and  Mrs.  Curtis  followed  him  to 


THE  LONELY  UNICORN  293 

the  door,  no  doubt  with  the  intention  of  leaving  the 
lovers  alone  together,  Roland  put  out  his  arms  to 
April  and  folded  her  into  them,  and  for  the  last  time 
laid  his  lips  on  hers  in  a  kiss  that  expressed  for  him 
an  infinite  kindness  for  her,  and  pity,  pity  for  her,  for 
himself,  and  for  the  tangle  life  had  made  of  their 
ambitions.  As  he  drew  back  his  head  from  hers  she 
whispered  the  word  "Darling!"  on  a  note  of  authentic 
passion,  but  he  could  not  say  anything.  His  hands 
closed  on  her  shoulders  for  a  moment,  then  slackened. 
He  could  not  bear  to  look  at  her.  He  turned  quickly 
and  ran  to  his  father.  Was  it,  he  asked  himself,  the 
kiss  of  Iscariot?  He  did  not  know.  He  had  buried 
a  part  of  himself;  he  had  said  good-by  to  the  first 
twenty  years  of  his  life. 

He  walked  home  in  silence  beside  his  father.  He 
was  in  no  mood  for  the  strain  of  the  exacting  situa- 
tion, the  astonishment,  the  implied  reproach  that  lay 
in  front  of  him.  But  he  was  resigned  to  it.  It  had 
to  come;  there  was  no  loophole. 

He  made  his  announcement  quite  quietly  during  a 
pause  in  the  talk  just  after  dinner.  And  it  was  re- 
ceived, as  he  had  anticipated,  in  a  stupefied  silence. 

"What!"  said  Mr.  Whately  at  last.  "Engaged  to 
Muriel  Marston!" 

"Yes,  Muriel  Marston,  the  daughter  of  my  em- 
ployer, and  I'm  to  become  a  junior  partner  in  the 
firm." 

"But "  Mr.  Whately  paused.  He  was  not  equal 

to  the  pressure  of  the  situation.  He  was  not  per- 
plexed by  the  ethics  of  Roland's  action;  his  critical 
faculties  had  only  appreciated  the  first  fact,  that  a 
plan  had  been  altered,  and  he  was  always  thrown  off 
his  balance  by  the  alteration  of  any  plan.  He  was 
accustomed  to  thinking  along  grooves;  he  distrusted 


294  ROLAND  WHATELY 

sidings.  He  got  no  further  than  the  initial  "But." 
His  wife,  however,  had  recovered  from  the  shock  and 
was  by  now  able  to  face  the  matter  squarely.  When 
she  spoke  her  voice  was  even. 

"Now,  please,  Roland,  we  want  to  know  all  about 
this.  When  did  you  propose  to  Miss  Marston?" 

"During  the  week-end — on  Saturday  evening." 

"And  her  parents  agree  to  it?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Roland,  a  little  impatiently. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I've  been  offered  a  junior 
partnership  in  his  business?" 

"Of  course;  I  forgot.  I'm  sorry.  This  is  rather 
difficult  for  us.  Now,  you  say " 

But  at  this  po;nt  her  husband,  whose  thoughts  had 
by  now  traveled  a  certain  distance  along  the  new 
groove,  interrupted  her. 

"But  how  can  you  talk  about  being  engaged  to  this 
Muriel  Marston  when  you've  been  engaged  for  nearly 
three  years  to  April?" 

Roland's  retort  came  quickly. 

"I've  never  been  engaged  to  April." 

"You  know  you  have!    Why!  ..." 

But  Mrs.  Whately  had  held  up  her  hand. 

"Hush,  dear,"  she  said.  "Roland's  quite  right. 
He's  never  been  officially  engaged  to  April." 

Roland  shivered  at  the  venom  that  was  revealed  by 
the  stressing  of  the  word  "officially." 

"And  how  long,"  she  went  on,  "have  you  been  in 
love  with  Miss  Marston?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  mother;  I  can't  tell.  Please 
let  me  alone."  And  there  was  genuine  misery  behind 
the  words.  "One  doesn't  know  about  a  thing  like 
this." 

But  Mrs.  Whately  would  not  spare  him.  She  shook 
her  head  impatiently. 


THE  LONELY  UNICORN  295 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Roland;  you're  behaving  like 
a  child.  Of  course  one  knows  these  things.  You've 
known  Miss  Marston  for  four  or  five  years  now.  You 
couldn't  suddenly  find  yourself  in  love  with  her." 

"I  suppose  not,  mother,  but— 

"There's  no  'but.'  You  must  have  been  thinking 
of  her  for  a  long  time.  On  Friday  night — Saturday 
morning,  I  mean — you  must  have  gone  down  there 
with  the  full  intention  of  proposing  to  her;  didn't 
you?" 

Roland  did  not  answer  her.  He  rose  from  his  seat 
and  walked  across  to  the  window. 

"It's  no  good,"  he  said,  and  his  back  was  turned  to 
them.  "It's  no  good.  I  can't  make  you  understand. 
You  won't  believe  what  I  say.  I  seem  an  awful  beast 
to  you,  I  know,  but — oh,  well,  things  went  that  way." 

And  he  stood  there,  looking  out  of  the  window 
through  the  chink  of  the  blind  towards  the  long,  gray 
stretch  of  roofs,  the  bend  of  the  road,  the  pools  of 
lamplight,  till  suddenly,  like  a  caress,  he  felt  his 
mother's  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Roland,"  she  said,  and  for  the  first  time  there  was 
sympathy  in  her  voice,  "Roland,  please  tell  me  this. 
You're  not,  are  you,  marrying  this  girl  for  her 
money?" 

He  turned  and  looked  her  full  in  the  eyes. 

"No,  mother,"  he  said.  "I  love  Muriel  Marston.  I 
love  her  and  I  want  to  marry  her."  As  he  spoke  he 
saw  the  kind  light  vanish  from  her  eyes,  her  hand  fell 
from  his  shoulder  and  the  voice  that  answered  him 
was  metallic. 

"Very  well,  then,  if  that's  so,  there's  no  more  to  be 
said.  As  you've  arranged  all  this  yourself,  you'll  let 
us  know  when  the  marriage  will  take  place." 

She  turned  away.    He  took  a  step  towards  her. 


296  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Mother,  please " 

But  she  only  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  when  her 
husband  asked  what  was  going  to  be  done  about  April, 
she  said  that  she  supposed  that  it  was  no  affair  of 
theirs,  and  that  no  doubt  Roland  would  make  his  own 
arrangements.  She  picked  up  the  paper  and  began  to 
read  it.  Roland  wondered  what  was  going  to  happen 
next;  the  silence  oppressed  him.  He  listened  to  the 
slow  ticking  of  the  clock  till  he  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"Oh,  please,  one  of  you,  won't  you  say  something?" 

They  both  turned  their  heads  in  surprise  as  though 
they  would  survey  a  curiosity,  a  tortoise  that  had 
been  granted  miraculously  the  gift  of  speech. 

"But,  my  dear  Roland,  what  is  there  to  be  said?" 

"I  don't  know,  I " 

"Your  mother's  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Whately. 
"You're  your  own  master;  you've  arranged  to  marry 
the  girl  you  want.  What  is  there  to  be  said?" 

And  their  heads  were  again  turned  from  him.  He 
stood  looking  at  them,  pondering  the  wisdom  of  an 
appeal  to  their  emotions.  He  half  opened  his  mouth, 
took  a  step  forward,  but  paused ;  what  purpose  would 
it  serve?  One  could  not  appeal  to  stone;  they  were 
hard,  unreceptive,  hostile;  they  would  turn  cold  eyes 
upon  his  outburst.  He  would  look  ridiculous.  It 
would  do  no  good. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  said,  and  walked  out  of  the 
room. 

As  he  sat  on  his  bed  that  night  he  remembered  how, 
five  years  ago,  he  had  returned  to  his  study  after  that 
tempestuous  interview  with  the  Chief  and  had  re- 
flected on  the  impossibility  of  one  mortal  making 
clear  his  meaning  to  another.  Life  went  in  a  circle; 
here  was  the  same  situation  in  a  different  setting. 
Everything  was  repetition.  Had  not  the  Eastern 


THE  LONELY  UNICORN  297 

critic  laid  it  down  that  in  the  whole  range  of  literature 
there  could  be  discovered  only  seven  different  stories? 
He  remembered  the  Chief  telling  him  that;  it  had 
stuck  in  his  mind:  music  had  evolved  from  seven 
notes,  painting  from  three  colors,  literature  from 
twenty-four  letters,  the  chronicle  of  mankind  from 
seven  stories.  Variety,  new  clothes,  new  accents,  but 
at  heart  the  same  story,  the  same  song. 

One  problem,  however,  that  he  had  not  previously 
considered,  had  become  clear  for  him  during  that 
discussion.  How  was  April  to  be  told?  He  had 
imagined  that  he  had  only  to  tell  his  parents  for  the 
matter  to  be  settled.  They  would  do  the  rest.  He 
had  never  thought  that  the  responsibility  of  breaking 
the  news  to  April  would  rest  with  him.  And  he  could 
not  do  it;  it  was  no  good  pretending  that  he  could. 
He  could  no  more  tell  April  himself  than  he  could 
murder  a  man  in  cold  blood.  He  knew  also  that  if  he 
once  saw  her  he  would  be  unable  to  carry  through  the 
part.  She  would  open  the  door  for  him  and  as  soon 
as  they  were  alone  in  the  hall  she  would  throw  her 
arms  about  his  neck  and  kiss  him,  and  how  should  he 
then  find  words  to  tell  her?  His  old  love  for  her 
would  return  to  him ;  there  would  be  further  compli- 
cations. Perhaps  he  might  write  a  letter  to  her,  but 
he  had  only  to  take  up  pen  and  paper  to  realize  that 
this  was  impossible.  He  could  not  express  himself 
in  writing;  the  sentences  that  stared  at  him  from  the 
paper  were  cold  and  stilted;  they  would  wound  her 
cruelly.  He  was  accustomed  in  times  of  perplexity  to 
turn  for  advice  to  Gerald.  But  this  was  hardly  an 
occasion  when  that  was  possible.  Gerald  was,  after 
all,  Muriel's  brother.  There  were  limits. 

The  next  day  brought  Roland  no  nearer  to  a  solu- 
tion of  his  immediate  problem.  Indeed  he  had  not 


298  ROLAND  WHATELY 

thought  of  one  till,  on  his  way  home,  he  boarded  the 
wrong  bus,  and  on  handing  threepence  and  saying 
"Hammerton  Town  Hall"  was  informed  that  the  bus 
he  was  on  would  take  him  only  as  far  as  Donnington 
before  turning  off  to  Richmond.  The  word  "Rich- 
mond" gave  him  his  idea.  Richmond,  that  was  it,  of 
course  that  was  it!  Why  had  he  not  thought  of  it 
before?  He  would  go  round  to  Ralph  at  once  and 
send  him  on  an  embassy  to  April.  So  pleased  was  he 
with  this  inspiration  that  he  was  actually  shaking 
hands  with  Ralph  before  he  realized  that  the  battle 
was  not  won  yet,  and  that  he  had  before  him  a  very 
awkward  interview. 

"Ralph,"  he  said,  "I  want  a  word  with  you  alone. 
I  don't  want  to  be  disturbed." 

"Shall  we  go  out  for  a  walk  then?" 

"Right." 

Ralph  went  into  the  hall,  fidgeting  his  fingers  in  the 
umbrella  stand  in  search  of  his  walking  stick,  did  not 
find  it,  and  paused  there  indeterminate. 

"Now,  where  did  I  put  that  stick?" 

"Oh,  don't  bother,  please  don't  bother;  we're  only 
going  for  a  stroll." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  if  I  don't  find  it  now — let  me  see, 
perhaps  it's  in  the  kitchen."  And  for  the  next  three 
minutes  everyone  seemed  to  be  shouting  all  over  the 
house:  "Mother,  have  you  seen  my  walking  stick?" 
"Emma,  have  you  seen  Mr.  Ralph's  walking  stick?" 
And  by  the  time  that  the  stick  was  eventually  dis- 
covered, in  the  cupboard  in  Ralph's  bedroom, 
Roland's  patience  and  composure  had  been  shattered. 

"Such  a  fuss  about  a  thing  like  that,"  he  protested. 

"All  right,  all  right;  I  didn't  keep  you  long.  Now, 
what's  it  all  about?"  And  there  was  firmness  in  his 
voice  which  caused  Roland  a  twinge  of  uneasiness. 


THE  LONELY  UNICORN  299 

Ralph  had  developed  since  he  had  gone  to  Oxford. 
He  was  no  longer  the  humble  servant  of  Roland's 
caprice. 

"It's  not  very  easy,"  said  Roland;  "I  want  you  to 
do  something  for  me.  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  do  me 
a  great  favor.  It's  about  April." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Ralph,  "I  know  what  it  is; 
you're  going  to  be  married  at  once,  and  you  want  me 
to  be  your  best  man — but  I  shall  be  delighted." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  said  Roland,  "it's  not  that  at  all." 

Ralph  was  surprised.    "No?" 

"No,  it's — oh,  well,  look  here.  You  know  how 
things  are;  there's  been  a  sort  of  understanding  be- 
tween us  for  a  long  time — three  or  four  years — hasn't 
there?  Well,  one  alters;  one  doesn't  feel  at  twenty- 
three  as  one  does  when  one's  seventeen;  we're  alter- 
ing all  the  time,  and  perhaps  I  have  altered  quicker 
than  most  people.  I've  been  abroad  a  lot."  He 
paused.  "You  understand,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

Ralph  nodded,  understanding  perfectly.  Though 
he  did  not  quite  see  where  he  himself  came  in,  he 
understood  that  Roland  was  tired  of  April.  But  he 
was  not  going  to  spare  him.  There  should  be  no 
short-cuts,  no  shorthand  conversation.  Roland  would 
have  to  tell  him  the  whole  story. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  for  the  first  time  in  their  rela- 
tionship Roland  knew  that  he  was  in  the  weaker  po- 
sition and  that  Ralph  was  determined  to  enjoy  his 
triumph. 

"All  right,"  said  Roland,  "I'll  go  on,  though  you 
know  what  I've  got  to  tell  you.  I  don't  kno^  whose 
fault  it  is.  I  suppose  it's  mine  really,  but  things  have 
happened  this  way.  I'm  not  in  love  with  April  any 
more." 


300  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Again  he  paused  and  again  Ralph  repeated  that  one 
word,  "Well?" 

"I  don't  love  her  any  more,  and  I've  fallen  in  love 
with  someone  else  and  we  want  to  get  married." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Muriel  Marston." 

"The  sister  of  that  fellow  you  play  cricket  with?" 

"Yes,  that's  it."  He  paused,  hoping  that  now 
Ralph  would  help  him  out,  but  Ralph  gave  him  no 
assistance,  and  Roland  was  forced  to  plunge  again 
into  his  confession.  "Well,  you  see,  April  knows  noth- 
ing about  it.  I've  been  a  bit  of  a  beast,  I  suppose. 
As  far  as  she  is  concerned  the  understanding  still 
holds  good.  She's  still  in  love  with  me,  at  least  she 
thinks  she  is.  It's — well,  you  see  how  it  is." 

"Yes,  I  quite  see  that.  You've  been  playing  that 
old  game  of  yours,  of  running  two  girls  in  two  differ- 
ent places,  only  this  time  it's  gone  less  fortunately 
and  you  find  you've  got  to  marry  one  of  them,  and 
April's  the  one  that's  got  to  go?" 

"If  you  put  it  that  way " 

"Well,  how  else  can  I  put  it?" 

"Oh,  have  it  as  you  like." 

"And  what  part  exactly  do  you  expect  me  to  play 
in  this  comedy?" 

"I  want  you  to  break  the  news  to  April." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  They  walked  on,  Ralph 
gazing  straight  in  front  of  him,  and  Roland  glancing 
sideways  at  him  from  time  to  time  to  see  how  the 
idea  had  struck  him.  But  he  could  learn  nothing 
from  the  set  expression  of  his  companion's  face.  It 
was  his  turn  now  to  employ  an  interrogatory  "Well?" 
But  Ralph  did  not  appear  to  have  heard  him.  They 
walked  on  hi  silence,  till  Roland  felt  some  further 
explanation  was  demanded  of  him. 


THE  LONELY  UNICORN  301 

"It's  like  this,  you  see " 

But  Ralph  cut  him  short.  "I  understand  quite 
well;  you're  afraid  to  tell  her.  You're  ashamed  of 
yourself  and  you  expect  me  to  do  your  dirty  work!" 

"It's  not  that " 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is.  I  know  you'll  find  excuses  for 
yourself,  but  that's  what  it  amounts  to.  And  I  don't 
see  why  I  should  do  it." 

"I  am  asking  it  of  you  as  a  favor." 

"That's  like  you.  Since  you've  met  these  new 
friends  of  yours  you've  dropped  your  old-time  friends 
one  by  one.  I've  watched  you,  and  now  April,  she's 
the  last  to  go.  You  haven't  been  to  see  me  for  three 
or  four  months  and  now  you've  only  come  because 
you  want  me  to  do  something  for  you." 

The  justice  of  the  remark  made  Roland  wince.  He 
had  seen  hardly  anything  of  Ralph  during  the  last 
three  years. 

"But,  Ralph,"  he  pleaded,  "how  can  I  go  and  tell 
her  myself?" 

"If  one's  done  a  rotten  thing  one  owns  up  to  it. 
It's  the  least  one  can  do." 

"But,  it  isn't 

"What  isn't  it?  Not  a  rotten  thing  to  make  a  girl 
believe  for  four  years  that  you're  going  to  marry  her 
and  then  chuck  her!  If  that  isn't  a  rotten  thing  I 
don't  know  what  is!" 

Roland  was  wise  enough  not  to  attempt  to  justify 
himself.  He  would  only  enrage  Ralph  still  further 
and  that  was  not  his  game. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Granted  all  that,  granted 
Fve  done  a  rotten  thing,  it's  happened;  it  can't  be 
altered  now;  something's  got  to  be  done.  Put  your- 
self in  my  place.  What  would  you  do  if  you  were 
me?" 


302  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"I  shouldn't  have  got  myself  in  such  a  place" ;  his 
voice  was  stern  and  official  and  condemnatory.  In 
spite  of  the  stress  of  the  situation  Roland  was  hard 
put  to  it  not  to  kick  him  for  a  prig. 

"But  I  have,  you  see,  and " 

"Even  so,"  Ralph  interrupted,  "I  can't  see  why  you 
shouldn't  go  and  tell  April  yourself." 

"Because  April  herself  would  rather  be  told  by  any- 
one than  me." 

It  was  his  last  appeal  and  he  saw  that  it  had  suc- 
ceeded. Ralph  repeated  the  words  over  to  himself. 

"April  would  rather  be  told—  -  Oh,  but  rot!  She'd 
much  rather  have  it  out  straight." 

"Oh,  no,  she  wouldn't;  you  don't  know  April  as 
well  as  I  do.  She  hates  scenes;  she  could  discuss  it 
impersonally  with  you.  With  me — can't  you  see  how 
it  would  hurt  her;  she  wouldn't  know  how  to  take 
it,  whether  to  plead,  or  just  accept  it — can't  you  see?" 

He  had  won,  and  he  knew  it,  through  the  appeal  to 
April's  feelings.  Ralph  would  do  what  he  wanted, 
because  he  would  think  that  he  was  performing  a 
service  for  April. 

"I  expect  you're  right,"  he  said;  "you  know  her 
better  than  I  do,  but  I'm  doing  it  for  her,  not  for  you, 
mind." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand." 

"If  it  wasn't  for  her  I  wouldn't  do  it.  A  man  should 
do  his  own  dirty  work.  And  you  know  what  I  think 
of  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know."  He  would  make  no  defense. 
Ralph  might  be  allowed  in  payment  the  poor  privi- 
lege of  revenge. 

"And  you'll  tell  me  what  she  says?" 

"You  shall  have  a  full  account  of  the  execution." 

They  walked  a  little  farther  in  silence.    They  had 


THE  LONELY  UNICORN  303 

nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other,  and  at  the  corner 
of  a  road  they  parted.    It  was  finished. 

Roland  walked  home,  well  satisfied  at  the  success- 
ful outcome  of  a  delicate  situation — the  same  Roland 
who  had  congratulated  himself  five  years  earlier  on 
the  diplomacy  of  the  Brewster  episode. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THERE'S  ROSEMARY  .  .  . 

RALPH  went  round  to  see  April  on  the  next 
morning,  shortly  after  eleven  o'clock.  She  had 
just  been  out  for  a  long  walk  by  herself  and,  on  her 
return,  had  taken  up  a  novel  with  which  to  while 
away  the  two  hours  remaining  to  lunch  time.  She 
had  left  school  eighteen  months  earlier,  and  time  often 
hung  heavily  on  her.  She  did  little  things  about  the 
house:  she  tidied  her  own  room,  mended  her  own 
clothes,  did  some  occasional  cooking,  but  she  had 
many  hours  of  idleness.  She  wished  sometimes  that 
she  had  trained  for  some  definite  work.  Women  were 
no  longer  regarded  as  household  ornaments.  Many 
careers  were  open  to  her.  But  it  had  not  seemed 
worth  while  during  the  last  year  at  school  to  specialize 
in  any  one  subject.  What  was  the  good  of  taking  up 
a  career  that  she  would  have  to  abandon  so  soon? 
The  first  year  in  any  profession  was  uninteresting, 
and  by  the  time  she  had  reached  a  position  where  she 
would  be  entrusted  with  responsibilities  her  marriage 
day  would  be  approaching.  And  so,  instead  of  look- 
ing for  any  settled  work,  she  had  decided  to  stay  at 
home  and  help  her  mother  as  much  as  possible.  It 
was  lonely  at  times,  especially  when  Roland  was 
away;  she  was,  in  consequence,  much  given  to  day- 
dreams. Her  book,  on  this  September  morning,  had 
slipped  on  to  her  lap,  and  her  thoughts  had  refused  to 

304 


THERE'S  ROSEMARY  ...  305 

concentrate  on  the  printed  page,  and  fixed  themselves 
on  the  time  when  she  and  Roland  would  be  married. 
He  had  not  been  to  see  her  at  all  the  day  before.  But 
the  memory  of  his  last  kiss  was  very  actual  to  her. 
He  had  loved  her  then.  She  had  had  her  bad  mo- 
ments, when  she  had  wondered  whether,  after  all,  he 
really  cared  for  her,  but  she  was  reassured  by  such  a 
memory.  And  soon  they  would  be  married.  She 
would  make  him  happy.  She  would  be  a  good  wife. 

A  knock  on  the  front  door  roused  her  from  her 
reverie,  and,  turning  her  head,  she  saw  Ralph  Rich- 
mond standing  in  the  doorway.  She  rose  quickly, 
her  hand  stretched  out  in  friendly  welcome. 

"How  nice  of  you  to  come,  Ralph;  you're  quite  a 
stranger.  Come  and  sit  down."  And  as  soon  as  he 
was  seated  she  began  to  talk  with  fresh  enthusiasm 
about  their  friends  and  acquaintances.  "I  saw  Mrs. 
Evans  yesterday  and  she  told  me  that  Edward  had 
failed  again  for  his  exam.  She  was  awfully  disap- 
pointed, though  she  oughtn't  really  to  have  expected 
anything  else.  Arthur's  form  master  told  him  once 
that  he  couldn't  imagine  any  examination  being  in- 
vented that  Edward  would  be  able  to  pass." 

Ralph  sat  in  silence,  watching  her,  wondering  what 
expression  those  bright  features  would  assume  when 
she  had  heard  what  he  had  to  tell  her.  He  dreaded 
the  moment,  not  for  his  sake,  but  for  hers.  He  hardly 
thought  of  himself.  He  loved  her  and  he  would  have 
to  give  her  pain.  In  the  end  he  stumbled  awkwardly 
across  her  conversation. 

"April,  I  have  got  some  bad  news  for  you." 

"Oh,  Ralph,  what  is  it?  Nothing  about  your  peo- 
ple, is  it?" 

"No,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  me.  It's  about 
Roland," 


306  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Although  she  made  no  movement,  and  though  the 
expression  of  her  face  did  not  appear  to  alter,  it 
seemed  to  him  that,  at  the  mention  of  Roland's  name, 
her  vitality  was  stilled  suddenly. 

"Yes?"  she  said,  and  waited  for  his  reply. 

"He's  not  hurt,  or  anything.  You  needn't  be  fright- 
ened. But  he  wanted  you  to  know  that  he  has  become 
engaged  to  Muriel  Marston." 

She  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  then  in  a  dazed 
voice : 

"Oh,  no,  you  must  be  mistaken,  it  can't  be  true,  it 
can't  possibly!" 

"But  it  is,  April,  really.  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but 
it  is." 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  swayed,  steadied  herself 
with  her  left  hand,  took  a  half  pace  to  the  window 
and  stood  still. 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  she  said.  She  could  not 
bear  to  contemplate  her  life  without  Roland  in  it. 
What  would  her  life  become?  What  else  had  it  been, 
indeed,  for  the  last  four  years  but  Roland  the  whole 
time?  Whenever  she  had  bought  a  new  frock  or  a 
new  hat  she  had  wondered  how  Roland  would  like 
her  in  it.  When  she  had  heard  an  amusing  story  her 
first  thought  had  been,  "Roland  will  be  amused  by 
that."  When  she  had  opened  the  paper  in  the  morn- 
ing she  had  turned  always  to  the  sports'  page  first. 
"Roland  will  be  reading  these  very  words  at  this  very 
moment."  Roland  was  the  measure  of  her  happiness. 
It  was  a  good  day  or  a  bad  day  in  accordance  with 
Roland's  humor.  She  would  mark  in  the  calendar  the 
days  in  red  and  green  and  yellow — yellow  for  the  un- 
happy days,  when  Roland  had  not  seen  her,  or  when 
he  had  been  unsympathetic;  the  green  days  were  or- 
dinary days,  when  she  had  seen  him,  but  had  not  been 


THERE'S  ROSEMARY  ...  307 

alone  with  him;  her  red  days  were  the  happy  days, 
when  there  had  been  a  letter  from  him  in  the  morning, 
or  when  they  had  been  alone  together  and  he  had  been 
nice  and  kissed  her  and  made  love  prettily  to  her. 
Her  whole  life  was  Roland.  Whenever  she  was  de- 
pressed she  would  comfort  herself  with  the  knowledge 
that  in  a  year  or  so  she  would  be  married  and  with 
Roland  for  always.  She  could  not  picture  to  herself 
what  her  life  would  become  now  without  him.  She 
raised  her  hand  to  her  head,  in  dazed  perplexity. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  repeated.  "What  am  I  to 
do?"  Then  she  pulled  herself  together.  There  were 
several  questions  that  she  would  wish  to  have  an- 
swered. She  returned  to  her  seat.  "Now  tell  me, 
when  did  this  happen,  Ralph?" 

"He  told  me  last  night." 

"I  don't  mean  that;  when  did  he  propose  to  Miss 
Marston?" 

"During  the  week-end — on  Saturday  evening,  I 
think." 

"Saturday  evening!"  she  repeated  it — "Saturday 
evening!"  Then  he  had  been  engaged  to  this  other 
girl  on  Monday  night  when  he  had  kissed  her.  He 
had  loved  her  then,  he  had  meant  that  kiss;  she  was 
certain  of  it.  And  to  April,  as  earlier  to  Mrs.  Whately, 
this  treachery  seemed  capable  of  explanation  only  by 
a  marriage  for  money.  It  was  unworthy  of  Roland. 
She  could  hardly  imagine  him  doing  it.  But  he  might 
be  in  debt.  People  did  funny  things  when  they  were 
in  debt. 

"Is  she  pretty,  this  Miss  Marston?" 

That  was  her  next  question,  and  Ralph  replied  that 
he  thought  she  was. 

"But  you've  never  seen  her?" 

"No." 


308  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"Roland  told  you  she  was  pretty.  Did  he  say 
anything  else  about  her?" 

"No,  hardly  anything." 

There  was  another  pause.    Then : 

"I  can't  think,"  she  said,  "why  he  didn't  come  and 
tell  me  this  himself." 

She  said  nothing  more.  Ralph  saw  no  reason  why 
he  should  remain  any  longer.  He  rose  awkwardly  to 
his  feet.  As  he  looked  down  at  her,  beaten  and  de- 
jected, his  love  for  her  flamed  up  in  him  fiercely,  and, 
with  a  sudden  tenderness,  he  began  to  speak  to  her. 

"April,"  he  said,  "it's  been  awful  for  me  having  to 
tell  you  this.  I've  hated  hurting  you — really  I  have. 
I  know  you  don't  care  for  me,  but  if  you  would  look 
on  me  as  a  friend,  a  real  friend;  if  there's  anything 
I  can  do  for  you  just  now  ...  I  can't  explain  my- 
self, but  if  you  want  anything  I'll  do  it.  You'll  come 
to  me,  won't  you?" 

She  smiled  at  him,  a  tired,  pathetic  smile. 

"All  right,  Ralph,  I'll  remember." 

But  the  moment  he  had  left  the  room  all  thought 
of  him  passed  from  her,  and  she  was  confronted  with 
the  gray,  interminable  prospect  of  a  future  without 
Roland.  She  could  not  believe  that  he  was  lost  to 
her  irretrievably.  He  would  return  to  her.  He  must 
love  her  still.  It  was  only  two  days  since  he  had 
kissed  her.  He  was  marrying  this  girl  for  her  money ; 
that  was  why  he  had  been  ashamed  to  tell  her  of  it 
himself.  He  would  not  have  been  ashamed  if  he  had 
really  loved  this  Muriel.  Well,  if  it  was  money  she 
would  win  him  back.  She  was  not  afraid  of  poverty 
if  Roland  was  with  her;  she  would  fight  against  it. 
She  would  earn  money  in  little  ways;  she  would  do 
without  a  servant.  His  debts  would  be  soon  paid  off. 
She  would  tell  him  this  and  he  would  return  to  her. 


THERE'S  ROSEMARY  ...  309 

That  evening  she  walked  towards  the  Town  Hall 
at  the  hour  when  he  would  be  returning  from  the 
office.  She  had  often  gone  to  meet  him  without  her 
mother's  knowledge,  and  they  had  walked  together 
down  the  High  Street  in  the  winter  darkness,  his  arm, 
through  hers.  Bus  after  bus  came  up,  emptied,  and 
he  was  not  there.  She  watched  the  people  climbing 
down  the  stairs.  She  had  decided  that  as  soon  as  she 
saw  Roland  she  would  walk  quietly  down  the  street, 
as  though  she  had  not  come  purposely  to  meet  him. 
She  would  thus  take  him  off  his  guard.  But,  some- 
how, she  missed  the  bus  that  he  was  on;  perhaps  a 
passing  van  had  obscured  her  sight  of  it.  And  she 
did  not  realize  that  he  was  there  till  she  saw  him  sud- 
denly on  the  other  side  of  the  pavement.  Their  eyes 
met,  Roland  smiled,  raised  his  hat  and  seemed  about 
to  come  across  to  her;  then  he  seemed  to  remember 
something,  for  he  hurried  quickly  on  and  was  lost 
almost  at  once  in  the  dense,  black-coated  crowd  of 
men  returning  from  their  office.  The  smile,  the  rais- 
ing of  the  hat,  had  been  an  involuntary  action.  He 
had  not  remembered  till  he  had  taken  that  step  for- 
ward that  he  had  now  no  part  in  her  life.  He  felt  she 
would  not  want  to  speak  to  him  now.  And  this  action 
naturally  confirmed  April  in  her  belief  that  Roland 
was  marrying  Muriel  for  her  money. 

"It  is  me  that  he  loves  really,"  she  told  herself,  and 
she  felt  that  if  she  were  a  clever  woman  she  would 
be  able  to  win  him  back  to  her. 

"But  I  am  not  a  clever  woman,"  she  said.  "I  was 
not  made  for  intrigues  and  diplomacy."  She  remem- 
bered how,  four  years  earlier,  she  had  learned  from  a 
similar  experience  that  she  was  not  destined  for  a 
life  of  action.  "All  my  life,"  she  had  told  herself, 
"I  shall  have  to  wait,  and  Romance  may  come  to  me, 


310  ROLAND  WHATELY 

or  it  may  pass  me  by.  But  I  shall  be  unable  to  go  in 
search  of  it."  And  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  fate  had 
already  been  accomplished.  Roland  still  loved  her; 
that  she  could  not  doubt.  But  she  had  no  means  by 
which  she  might  recall  him  to  her.  "If  I  had,"  she 
said,  "I  should  be  a  different  woman,  and,  as  likely 
as  not,  he  would  not  love  me." 

On  her  return  home  she  went  straight  upstairs  to 
her  bedroom  and,  without  waiting  to  take  off  her 
hat,  opened  the  little  drawer  in  her  desk  in  which 
were  stored  the  letters  and  the  gifts  that  she  had  at 
various  times  received  from  Roland.  There  was  the 
copper  ring  there  that  he  had  slipped  on  to  her  finger 
at  the  party,  the  tawdry  copper  ring  that  she  had 
kept  so  bright;  there  was  the  score  card  of  a  cricket 
match,  the  blue  and  yellow  rosette  he  had  worn  at 
the  school  sports  when  he  had  been  a  steward,  a  pho- 
tograph of  him  in  Eton  collars.  She  held  them  in  her 
hand  and  her  first  instinct  was  to  throw  them  into 
the  fireplace.  But  she  thought  better  of  it.  After 
all  he  loved  her  still.  Why  should  she  not  keep 
them?  Instead,  she  sat  down  in  the  chair  and  laid  the 
little  collection  in  her  lap  and,  opening  the  letters, 
she  began  to  read  them  through,  one  by  one;  by  the 
time  she  had  finished  the  room  had  darkened.  She 
would  have  to  put  on  another  dress  for  the  evening 
and  do  her  hair.  Already  she  could  hear  her  father's 
voice  in  the  hall,  but  she  felt  lazy,  incapable  of  ac- 
tion ;  her  hands  dropped  into  her  lap,  and  her  fingers 
closed  round  the  letters  and  cards  and  snapshots. 
Her  thoughts  traveled  into  the  past  and  were  lost  in 
vague,  wistful  recollection.  Her  mother's  voice 
sounding  in  the  passage  woke  her  from  a  reverie.  It 
was  quite  dark ;  she  must  light  the  gas,  and  she  would 
have  to  hurry  with  her  dressing.  It  was  getting  late. 


THERE'S  ROSEMARY  ...  311 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  walked  over  to  the  bureau  and 
put  the  letters  back  into  the  little  drawer.  Her  fin- 
gers remained  on  the  handle  after  she  had  closed  it. 
And  again  she  asked  herself  the  question  to  which 
she  could  find  no  answer:  "What  is  going  to  happen 
to  me  now?" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE   CHRYSALIS 

THE  official  position  of  fiance  was  a  new  and 
fascinating  experience,  in  the  excitement  of 
which  Roland  speedily  forgot  the  unpleasantness  that 
its  announcement  had  caused  in  Hammerton.  It  was 
really  great  fun.  Important  relatives  were  asked  to 
meet  him,  and  he  was  introduced  to  them  by  Mr. 
Marston  as  "my  future  son-in-law."  Muriel  insisted 
on  taking  htm  for  walks  through  the  village  for  the 
pleasure  of  being  able  to  say  to  her  friends:  "This  is 
my  fiance."  And  when  he  complained  that  he  was 
being  treated  like  a  prize  dog,  she  asked  him  what  else 
he  thought  he  was.  Muriel  had  always  been  a  de- 
lightful companion  and  the  engagement  added  to  their 
relationship  a  charming  intimacy.  It  was  jolly  to  sit 
with  her  and  hold  her  hand ;  and  she  was  not  exacting. 
She  did  not  expect  him  to  be  making  love  to  her  the 
whole  time.  Indeed,  he  did  not  make  love  to  her 
very  often.  They  kissed  each  other  when  they  were 
alone,  but  then  kisses  were  part  of  the  game  that  they 
were  playing.  April  had  at  first  been  too  shy  to  pro- 
nounce the  actual  word  "kiss."  She  had  evaded  it, 
and  later,  when  she  had  come  to  use  it,  it  had  been 
for  a  long  while  accompanied  by  a  blush.  There  was 
no  such  reserve  between  Muriel  and  Roland.  Kisses 
were  favors  that  she  would  accord  to  him  if  he  were 
good.  "No,"  she  would  say  to  him  sometimes,  "I 

312 


THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS    313 

don't  think  I'm  going  to  let  you  kiss  me  this  after- 
noon. You  haven't  been  at  all  the  faithful  and  duti- 
ful lover.  You  didn't  pay  me  any  attention  at  lunch ; 
you  were  talking  to  father  about  some  silly  cricket 
match  and  I  had  to  ask  you  twice  to  pass  me  the  salt. 
I  oughtn't  to  have  to  ask  you  once.  You  ought  to 
know  what  I  want.  No!  I  shan't  let  you  kiss  me." 

And  then  he  would  entreat  her  clemency ;  he  would 
hold  her  hand  and  kneel  on  the  wet  grass,  an  act  of 
devotion  to  which  he  would  call  her  notice,  and  be- 
seech her  to  be  generous,  and  after  a  while  she  would 
weaken  and  say — yes,  if  he  was  very  good  he  might  be 
allowed  one  kiss.  No  more!  But  when  his  arms  were 
round  her  he  was  not  satisfied  with  one,  he  would 
take  two,  three,  four,  and  she  would  wriggle  in  his 
arms  and  kick  his  shins  and  tell  him  that  he  had  taken 
a  mean  advantage  of  her;  and  when  he  had  released 
her  she  would  vow  that  as  a  punishment  she  would 
not  kiss  him  again — no,  never,  not  once  again,  and 
then  would  add:  "No,  not  for  a  whole  week!"  And 
he  would  catch  her  again  hi  his  arms  and  say:  "Make 
it  a  minute  and  I'll  agree,"  and  with  a  laugh  she  had 
accepted  his  amendment. 

There  were  no  solemn  protestations,  no  passion,  no 
moments  of  languid  tenderness.  They  were  branches 
in  neighboring  boughs  that  played  merrily  in  the 
wind,  caring  more,  perhaps,  for  the  wind  than  for  each 
other. 

They  talked  exhaustively  of  the  future — of  the 
house  they  were  going  to  build,  the  garden  they  would 
lay  out.  "We'll  have  fowls,"  he  said,  "because  you'll 
look  so  pretty  feeding  them." 

"And  we'll  have  a  lawn,"  she  repeated,  "because 
you'll  look  so  hot  when  you've  finished  mowing  it." 

They  would  discuss  endlessly  the  problem  of  house 


314  ROLAND  WHATELY 

decoration.  She  was  very  anxious  to  have  bright  de- 
signs, "with  lots  of  red  and  blue  in  it/'  And  he  had 
told  her  that  she  could  do  what  she  liked  with  the 
drawing-room  as  long  as  she  allowed  him  a  free  hand 
with  his  own  study. 

"Which  means  that  you'll  have  a  nasty,  plain  brown 
paper,  and  you'll  cover  it  with  ugly  photographs  of 
cricket  elevens,  and  it'll  be  full  of  horrid  arm-chairs 
and  stale  tobacco." 

One  day  he  took  her  up  to  Hammerton  to  see  his 
parents  and  his  friends.  They  intrigued  her  by  the 
difference  from  the  type  to  which  she  was  accustomed. 

"It's  awfully  interesting,"  she  said.  "They  are  so 
different  from  the  sort  of  people  that  we  see — all 
jammed  together  in  these  funny  little  houses — all 
furnished  just  the  same." 

"Yes,  and  all  doing  the  same  things,"  said  Roland — 
"going  to  the  office  at  the  same  time,  coming  back  at 
the  same  time,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Gerald  that 
would  have  been  my  life.  That's  what  I  should  have 
been.  I  should  have  done  exactly  the  same  things 
every  day  of  my  life  except  for  one  fortnight  in  the 
year.  And  it  would  have  been  worse  for  me  than  for 
most  of  them,  because  I've  been  at  a  decent  school, 
because  I'd  seen  that  life  needn't  be  like  that.  These 
people  don't  believe  it  can  be  different."  He  spoke 
with  a  savage  sincerity  that  surprised  Muriel.  She 
had  never  known  him  so  violent. 

"Roland!  Roland!"  she  expostulated.  "I've  never 
heard  you  so  fierce  about  anything  before.  Your 
proposal  to  me  was  the  tamest  thing  in  the  world 
compared  with  that." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"I  should  hope  so.  I  believe  you  hate  Hammerton 
more  than  you  love  me." 


THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS    315 

So  the  autumn  passed,  quickly  and  happily.  And 
by  Christmas  time  they  had  begun  to  speak  of  an 
April  wedding.  There  was  no  reason  for  delay.  Ro- 
land was  now  making  over  seven  hundred  pounds  a 
year,  and  the  Marstons  were  too  certain  of  their  son- 
in-law  to  demand  a  long  engagement.  Yet  it  was  on 
the  very  evening  when  the  date  was  fixed  that  Roland 
and  Muriel  had  their  first  brief  quarrel.  Roland  had 
been  tired  by  the  long  discussion,  and  Muriel's  keen 
vitality  had  exasperated  him.  She  was  talking  so 
eagerly  of  her  trousseau,  her  bridesmaids,  the  locality 
of  her  honeymoon.  She  seemed  to  him  to  be  shar- 
ing their  love,  his  and  hers,  with  all  those  other 
people  who  had  no  part  in  it.  He  was  envious,  feeling 
that  their  love  was  no  longer  theirs.  He  was  still 
angry  when  they  stood  together  on  the  landing  to 
say  good-night  to  each  other. 

"I  don't  believe  you  care  for  me  at  all,"  he  said, 
"that  you  regard  our  marriage  as  anything  more  than 
a  pantomime,  a  glorified  garden  party!" 

A  look  of  hurt  amazement  crossed  her  face. 

"But,  Roland!" 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,  Muriel,  you — well, 
all  these  others^"  He  paused,  unable  to  express  him- 
self, then  caught  her  quickly,  roughly  into  his  arms, 
and  kissed  her  hungrily.  "I  don't  care,"  he  said, 
"you'll  be  mine  soon,  mine!" 

She  pushed  away  from  him,  her  face  flushed  and 
frightened. 

"Oh,  don't,  Roland,  don't!" 

He  was  instantly  apologetic. 

"I'm  sorry,  Elfkin.  I'm  a  beast.  Forgive  me,  but 
oh,  Elfkin,  you  really  are  anxious  about  the  marriage 
for  my  sake?" 

"Of  course,  silly!" 


316  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"I  mean  you're  glad  that  we're  going  to  be  married 
soon?" 

She  was  surprised  and  at  the  same  time  amused  by 
the  look  of  entreaty  in  his  eyes. 

"Don't  look  so  tragic  about  it,  of  course  I'm  glad." 

"But  .  .  ."  He  got  no  further,  for  she  had  taken 
his  hands  and  was  playing  with  them,  slapping  them 
against  his  sides. 

"Don't  be  such  a  silly,  Roland,  darling;  you  ought 
to  know  how  pleased  I  am.  I'm  looking  forward  to  it 
frightfully;  and  I  know  that  you'll  be  an  awful  dear 
to  me." 

She  brought  his  hands  together  in  one  last  triumph- 
ant smack,  and  leaning  forward  imprinted  a  light  kiss 
upon  his  forehead.  He  tried  to  draw  her  again  into 
his  arms,  but  she  broke  from  him. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  she  said,  and  ran  lightly  up  the 
stairs.  She  turned  at  the  corner  of  the  landing  to 
blow  a  kiss  to  him.  "Good-night,  darling,"  and  she 
was  gone. 

It  was  not  repeated.  Doubt,  remorse,  hesitation 
were  alike  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  preparation. 
He  had  arranged  to  take  over  the  lease  of  a  small 
house  on  the  edge  of  the  Marston  estate,  and  the  fur- 
nishing of  it  was  a  new  and  delightful  game.  The 
present  tenants  did  not  relinquish  possession  till  the 
end  of  February,  and  during  the  intervening  weeks 
Muriel  and  Roland  would  prowl  round  the  house  like 
animals  waiting  for  their  prey.  They  were  finely  con- 
temptuous of  the  existing  arrangements.  Fancy  using 
the  big  room  as  a  drawing-room;  it  faced  southeast, 
and  though  it  would  be  warm  enough  during  the  morn- 
ing, it  would  be  freezily  cold  in  the  afternoon.  Of 
course  they  would  make  that  the  dining  room;  it 
would  be  glorious  for  breakfast.  And  that  big  room 


THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS    317 

above  it  should  be  their  bedroom;  they  would  awake 
with  the  sunlight  streaming  through  the  window. 

"You'll  see  the  apple  tree  while  you  brush  your 
hair,"  he  told  her.  And  they  both  agreed  that  they 
would  cut  down  the  large  walnut  tree  in  the  garden. 
It  was  pretty,  but  it  shut  out  the  view  of  Hogstead. 
"It'll  be  much  better  to  be  able  to  look  out  from  the 
drawing-room  window  and  see  the  funny  old  people 
going  up  and  down  the  village  street."  And  Roland 
reminded  her  how  they  had  looked  down  on  them 
that  day  when  they  had  leaned  against  the  gate :  "Do 
you  remember?"  And  she  had  laughed  and  told  him 
that  he  was  a  stupid  old  sentimentalist,  but  she  had 
kissed  him  all  the  same.  And  then  the  great  day 
had  come  when  the  tenants  began  to  move;  they  stood 
all  the  afternoon  watching  the  workmen  stagger  into 
the  garden,  bowed  with  the  weight  of  heavy  furniture. 

"I  can't  think  how  all  that  stuff  ever  got  in  there," 
Muriel  said,  and  began  to  wonder  whether  they  them- 
selves would  ever  have  enough.  "We've  nothing  like 
as  much^is  that." 

And  Roland  had  to  assure  her  that  they  could  al- 
ways buy  more,  and  that  anyway  the  house  had  been 
over-furnished. 

"You  couldn't  move  for  chairs  and  chesterfields  and 
bureaus." 

It  was  two  days  before  the  last  van  rolled  away  and 
Muriel  and  Roland  were  able  to  walk  up  the  garden 
path  "into  our  own  house."  But  it  was  a  bitter  dis- 
appointment. The  rooms  looked  mean  and  small  and 
shabby  now  that  they  were  unfurnished.  The  bare 
boards  of  the  floors  and  staircases  were  dirty  and 
covered  with  the  straw  of  packing  cases,  the  plaster 
of  the  wall  showing  white  where  the  book  shelves  had 
been  unfixed.  And  the  paper  that  had  been  shielded 


318  ROLAND  WHATELY 

by  pictures  from  the  sunshine  struck  a  vivid  contrast 
to  its  faded  environment.  Muriel  was  on  the  verge 
of  tears. 

"Oh,  Roland,  what's  happened  to  our  pretty  house?" 
she  cried.  And  it  took  all  his  skill  to  persuade  her 
that  rooms  always  did  look  small  till  they  were  fur- 
nished, and  that  carpets  and  pictures  covered  many 
things. 

"But  our  pictures  won't  fit  exactly  in  those  places," 
Muriel  wailed,  "and  all  our  small  pictures  will  have 
haloes." 

"Then  we'll  get  new  papers,"  Roland  said. 

There  were  moments  when  it  seemed  that  things 
could  not  be  possibly  finished  in  time.  On  the  last 
week  of  March  there  was  not  a  carpet  on  the  floor,  not 
a  curtain  over  a  window,  not  a  picture  on  the  walls. 

"I  know  what  it'll  be,"  said  Muriel  in  despair,  "we 
shall  have  to  go  and  leave  it  half  finished,  and  while 
we're  away  mother'll  arrange  it  according  to  her  own 
ideas,  and  her  ideas  are  not  mine.  It'll  take  us  all  the 
rest  of  our  lives  getting  things  out  of  the  places  where 
she  has  put  them.  It's  going  to  be  awful,  Roland,  I 
know  it  is.  We  oughtn't  to  have  arranged  our  mar- 
riage till  we'd  arranged  our  house." 

Muriel  was  a  little  difficult  during  those  days,  but 
Roland  was  very  patient  and  very  affectionate. 

"You  only  wait,"  he  said;  "it  looks  pretty  awful 
now,  but  one  good  day's  shopping'll  make  a  jolly  big 
difference." 

And  it  did.  In  one  week  they  bought  all  the  car- 
pets, the  curtains,  the  chairs  and  tables,  and  Gerald 
was  dispatched  with  a  list  that  Mrs.  Marston  had 
drawn  up  of  the  uninteresting;  things — saucepans, 
frying-pans,  crockery — and  with  a  blank  check.  "We 
can't  be  bothered  with  those  things,"  said  Roland. 


THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS    319 

It  was  a  hectic  week.  They  had  decided  to  spend 
three  hundred  pounds  on  furnishing,  and  every  eve- 
ning, for  Roland  was  staying  with  the  Marstons,  the 
two  of  them  sat  down  to  adjust  their  accounts,  and  to 
Muriel,  who  had  never  experienced  a  moment's  anxi- 
ety about  money,  this  checking  of  a  balance-sheet  was 
a  delightful  game.  It  was  such  fun  pretending  to  be 
poor,  adding  up  figures,  comparing  price-lists,  as 
though  each  penny  mattered.  She  would  sit,  her  pen- 
cil on  her  lips,  her  account  book  on  one  side,  her  price- 
list  on  the  other,  and  would  look  up  at  Roland  with 
an  imploring,  helpless  glance,  and:  "Roland,  dear, 
there's  such  a  beautiful  wardrobe  here;  it's  fifty 
pounds,  but  it'll  hold  all  my  things ;  do  you  think  we 
can  afford  it?" 

And  Roland  would  assume  dire  deliberation: 
"Well,"  he  would  say,  after  an  impressive  pause,  "I 
think  we  can,  only  we'll  have  to  be  very  careful  over 
the  servant's  bedroom  if  we  get  it."  And  Muriel 
would  throw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  assure  him 
that  he  was  a  darling,  and  then  turn  again  to  the 
price-list. 

And  all  the  while  the  wedding  presents  were  arriv- 
ing by  every  post.  That,  too,  was  great  fun,  or  rather 
it  had  been  at  the  start. 

The  first  parcels  were  opened  with  unbounded  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Oh,  Roland,  Mrs.  Boffin  has  sent  us  a  silver  ink- 
stand ;  isn't  it  sweet  of  her?" 

"Muriel,  come  and  look  at  these  candlesticks;  they 
are  beauties." 

And  letters  of  eager  thanks  were  written.  After  a 
week  or  so  the  game  began  to  lose  its  fascination.  The 
gifts  resembled  each  other;  they  began  to  forget  who 
had  given  what,  and  as  they  wrote  the  letters  of 


320  ROLAND  WHATELY 

acknowledgment  they  would  shout  to  each  other  in 
despair : 

"Oh,  Roland,  do  tell  me  what  Mr.  Fitzherbert  sent 
us!" 

"I  can't  remember.  I'm  trying  to  think  who  I've 
got  to  thank  for  that  butter-dish." 

"The  butter-dish! — that  was  Mr.  Robinson — but 
Mr.  Fitzherbert?" 

"But  the  butter-dish  wasn't  Mr.  Robinson;  he  was 
the  clock!" 

"Then  it  was  Mrs.  Evans;  and,  Roland,  do,  do  think 
what  Mr.  Fitzherbert  gave  us." 

And  so  it  went  on,  till  at  last  they  began  to  show 
a  decided  preference  for  checks. 

And  there  was  the  honeymoon :  that  had  to  be  ar- 
ranged. Muriel  would  rather  like  to  have  gone 
abroad. 

"I've  been  only  twice.  We'll  see  all  the  foreigners, 
and  sit  in  cafes,  and  go  to  theaters  and  see  if  we  can 
understand  them." 

But  Roland  was  not  very  anxious  to  go  abroad. 
He  went  there  too  often  in  the  way  of  business.  He 
might  meet  people  who  at  other  times  were  charm- 
ing, but  were  not  on  a  honeymoon  the  most  comfort- 
able company.  There  would  be  the  fatigue  of  long 
journeys,  and  besides,  he  wanted  Muriel  to  himself. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  and  see  foreigners,  I  want  to 
see  you." 

"Well,  you'll  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  me  before 
you've  finished." 

"But,  Muriel,"  and  the  firm  note  in  his  voice  forced 
her  to  capitulate. 

"All  right,  all  right,  have  it  as  you  like." 

And  so,  after  much  discussion,  it  was  decided  that 
they  should  get  a  cyclist  map  of  England,  find  a  Sus- 


THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS    321 

sex  village  that  was  at  least  three  miles  from  any  rail- 
way station,  and  then  write  to  the  postmaster  and 
ask  whether  anyone  there  would  be  ready  to  let  them 
rooms  for  a  month. 

"Three  miles  from  anywhere !  Heavens !  but  I  shall 
be  bored ;  still  it's  as  you  wish.  Go  and  get  your  map, 
Gerald." 

And  with  the  map  spread  on  the  table  they  selected, 
after  an  hour's  argument,  to  see  if  anything  was 
doing  at  Bamfield. 

"It  should  be  a  good  place,"  said  Roland.  "It's 
just  under  the  Downs." 

In  all  this  fret  and  fluster  Mr.  Marston  took  the 
most  intense  interest.  It  reminded  him  of  his  own 
marriage  and,  finding  his  youth  again  in  theirs,  he 
spoke  often  of  his  honeymoon. 

"Do  you  remember,  dear,  when  we  went  out  for  a 
picnic  in  the  woods  and  it  came  on  to  rain  and  we 
went  to  that  little  cottage  under  the  hill?"  And 
again:  "Do  you  remember  that  view  we  got  of  the 
sea  from  the  top  of  Eversleigh?"  Little  incidents  of 
his  courtship  that  he  had  forgotten  a  long  time  were 
recalled  to  him,  so  that  he  came  to  feel  a  genuine  ten- 
derness for  the  wife  whom  he  had  neglected  for  busi- 
ness, for  cricket,  and  his  children ;  from  a  distance  of 
thirty  years  the  perfume  of  those  scented  months 
had  returned  to  him. 

Gerald  was  alone  unmoved.  He  was  annoyed  one 
morning  when  he  found  the  floor  of  the  billiard  room 
covered  with  packing  cases,  but  he  retained  his  hardly 
won  composure.  He  accepted  the  duties  of  best  man 
without  enthusiasm.  "At  any  rate  it  will  soon  be 
over,"  he  had  said,  and  had  proceeded  to  give  Roland 
two  new  white  wood  bats. 

"They  won't  last  long,  but  you  can't  help  making 


322  ROLAND  WHATELY 

a  few  runs  with  them."  And  his  friend  was  left  to 
draw  from  that  present  what  inference  he  might  think 
fit. 

They  were  hectic  days,  but  at  last  everything  was 
finished.  The  house  was  papered  and  furnished,  rooms 
had  been  booked  at  Bamfield,  and  in  the  last  week  in 
April  Roland  returned  to  Hammerton.  He  had  had 
scarcely  a  moment's  rest  during  the  last  two  months. 
Life  had  moved  at  an  incredible  pace,  and  only  with 
an  enormous  struggle  had  he  managed  to  keep  pace 
with  it.  He  had  had  no  time  to  think  what  he  was 
doing.  Each  morning  had  presented  him  with  some 
fresh  difficulty,  each  night  had  left  some  piece  of 
work  unfinished.  And,  now  that  it  was  over,  he  felt 
exhausted.  The  store  of  energy  that  had  sustained 
his  vitality  at  so  high  a  pressure  was  spent. 

The  sudden  marriage  was  naturally  a  disappoint- 
ment to  his  parents.  Their  opinion  had  not  been 
asked ;  the  arrangements  had  been  made  at  Hogstead. 
Roland  had  just  told  them  that  such  and  such  a  thing 
had  been  decided,  and  they  were  hurt.  They  had 
known,  of  course,  all  along  that  as  soon  as  their  son 
was  married  they  would  lose  him,  but  they  had  ex- 
pected to  retain  his  confidence  up  till  then;  and,  be- 
ing sentimental,  they  had  often  spoken  together  of 
the  wife  that  he  would  choose.  They  had  looked  for- 
ward to  his  days  of  courtship,  hoping  to  have  a  share 
in  that  fresh  happiness.  But  the  pleasure  had  been 
given  to  others;  they  had  had  no  part  in  it. 

In  consequence  Roland  did  not  find  them  very 
responsive.  They  listened  attentively  to  all  he  told 
them,  but  they  asked  no  questions,  and  the  conver- 
sation was  not  made  easy.  Roland  was  piqued  by 
their  behavior;  he  had  intended  to  arrange  a  picnic 
for  the  three  of  them  on  the  last  day,  but  now  de- 


THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS    323 

cided  that  he  would  not.  After  all,  why  should  he: 
it  would  be  no  pleasure  for  any  of  them,  not  if  they 
were  going  to  sit  glum  and  silent.  Two  days  before 
his  marriage  he  went  for  a  walk  in  the  evening  with 
his  father,  and  as  Gerald  would  be  coming  on  the 
next  day  to  stay  the  night  with  them  this  was  the 
last  walk  they  would  have  together.  But  in  nothing 
that  they  said  to  each  other  was  implied  any  appre- 
ciation of  the  fact.  When  Mr.  Whately  returned 
from  the  office  he  handed  the  evening  paper  to  his 
wife,  commented  on  the  political  situation  in  Russia 
and  on  the  economical  situation  of  France,  and  was, 
on  the  whole,  of  the  opinion  that  Spanish  cooking  was 
superior  to  Italian.  "Not  quite  so  much  variety,"  he 
said,  "but  there's  a  flavor  about  it  that  one  gets  no- 
where else."  He  then  proceeded  to  remove  his  boots: 
"And  what  about  a  walk,  Roland?" 

Roland  nodded,  and  Mr.  Whately  went  upstairs  to 
change  his  suit.  They  walked  as  usual  down  the  High 
Street,  they  turned  up  the  corner  of  College  Road, 
they  crossed  by  the  Public  Library  into  Green  Cres- 
cent, and  completed  their  circuit  by  walking  down 
into  the  High  Street  through  Woolston  Avenue.  They 
talked  of  Fernhurst,  of  the  coming  cricket  season,  of 
the  marriage  ceremony,  of  the  arrangements  that  had 
been  made  for  meeting  the  guests  at  the  church,  of 
the  train  that  Roland  and  Muriel  would  catch  after- 
wards. But  there  passed  between  them  not  one  sen- 
tence, question,  intonation  of  the  voice  that  could 
be  called  intimate,  that  could  be  said  to  express  not 
remorse,  but  any  attitude  at  all  towards  the  severing 
of  a  long  relationship.  As  they  walked  up  the  steps 
of  105  Hammerton  Villas  they  were  discussing  the 
effectiveness  of  the  new  pull  stroke  that  in  face  of 
prejudice  so  many  great  batsmen  were  practicing. 


324  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"I  think  I  shall  go  down  to  the  nets  at  the  Oval 
to-morrow  morning,  father,  and  see  what  I  can  make 
of  it." 

It  was  a  bleak  morning  and  the  Oval  presented  a 
dismal  appearance;  a  few  men  were  pottering  about 
with  ladders  and  paint  brushes;  a  cutting  machine 
was  clanking  on  the  grass;  the  long  stone  terraces 
were  cold  and  forbidding;  the  clock  in  the  pavilion 
had  stopped ;  far  over  at  the  Vauxhall  end  a  couple  of 
bored  professionals  were  bowling  to  an  enthusiastic 
amateur  who  had  no  idea  of  the  game,  but  demanded 
instruction  after  every  stroke.  Roland  stood  behind 
the  net  and  watched  for  a  while  an  exhibition  of 
cross-bat  play  that  was  calculated  to  make  him  for- 
ever an  advocate  of  the  left  shoulder,  the  left  elbow 
and  the  left  foot.  He  had  a  few  minutes'  chat  with 
one  of  the  groundsmen. 

"Yes,  sir,  it  do  look  pretty  dismal,  but  you  wait. 
April's  a  funny  month;  why,  to-morrow  we  shall 
probably  have  brilliant  sunshine,  and  there'll  be 
twenty  or  thirty  people  down  here,  and  when  you  go 
away  you'll  be  thinking  about  getting  out  that  bat 
of  yours  and  putting  a  drop  of  oil  on  it."  Roland 
expressed  a  hope  that  this  prophecy  would  prove 
correct. 

April  was  a  funny  month :  it  was  cold  to-day,  but 
within  a  week  the  sun  would  be  shining  on  green  grass 
and  new  white  flannels.  Only  another  week!  The 
fixing  of  this  date,  however,  reminded  Roland  that 
in  a  week's  time  he  would  be  in  a  small  village  under 
the  Downs,  three  miles  from  the  nearest  station, 
and  this  reminder  was  somewhat  of  a  shock  to  him. 
He  would  miss  the  first  four  weeks  of  the  season. 
By  the  time  he  came  back  everyone  else  would  have 
found  their  form;  it  was  rather  a  nuisance.  Still,  a 


THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS    325 

honeymoon!  Ah,  well,  one  could  not  have  it  both 
ways. 

Gerald  was  not  arriving  till  the  afternoon,  and  the 
morning  passed  slowly  for  Roland.  He  walked  from 
Kennington  over  Westminster  Bridge  and  along  the 
Embankment  to  Charing  Cross ;  he  strolled  down  the 
Strand,  looking  into  the  shop  windows  and  wonder- 
ing whether  he  was  hungry  enough  to  have  his  lunch. 
He  decided  he  was  not  and  continued  his  walk,  but 
boredom  made  him  reconsider  the  decision,  and  he 
found  himself  unable  to  pass  a  small  Italian  restau- 
rant at  the  beginning  of  Fleet  Street ;  and  as  he  had 
a  long  time,  with  nothing  to  do  in  it,  he  ordered  a 
heavy  lunch.  When  the  waiter  presented  him  with 
his  bill  he  had  become  fretfully  irritable — the  usual 
penalty  of  overeating. 

What  on  earth  should  he  do  with  himself  for  two 
hours?  How  slowly  the  time  was  passing.  It  was 
impossible  to  realize  that  in  twenty-four  hours'  time 
he  would  be  standing  beside  Muriel  before  the  altar, 
that  in  two  days'  time  they  would  be  man  and  wife. 
What  would  it  be  like?  Pondering  the  question,  he 
walked  along  to  Trafalgar  Square,  and  still  ponder- 
ing it  he  mounted  a  bus  and  traveled  on  it  as  far  as 
a  sevenpenny  ticket  would  take  him.  Then  he  got  on 
to  a  bus  that  was  going  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
by  the  time  he  was  back  again  at  Trafalgar  Square, 
Gerald's  train  from  Hogstead  was  nearly  due. 

It  was  not  a  particularly  exciting  evening  and  the 
atmosphere  was  distinctly  edgy.  Mr.  Whately  was 
bothered  about  his  clothes,  and  whether  he  should 
wear  a  white  or  a  dark  tie;  and  Mrs.  Whately  was 
fussing  over  little  things.  "Did  old  Mrs.  Whately 
know  that  she  had  to  change  at  Waterloo?  Had  any- 
one written  to  tell  her?  And  who  was  going  to  meet 


326  ROLAND  WHATELY 

her  at  the  other  end?"  It  was  a  relief  to  Roland 
when  they  had  gone  to  bed  and  he  and  Gerald  were 
left  alone. 

"It's  a  funny  thing,"  Gerald  said;  "five  years  ago 
we  didn't  know  each  other;  you  were  nothing  to  me, 
nor  I  to  you,  and  then  we  meet  in  Brewster's  study, 
and  again  at  the  Oval  and,  before  we  know  where  we 
are  you're  a  junior  partner  in  the  business  and  en- 
gaged to  my  sister.  To  think  what  a  difference  you've 
made  to  all  of  us!" 

"And  the  funniest  thing  of  all,"  said  Roland,  "is  to 
think  that  if  I  hadn't  caught  the  three-thirty  from 
Waterloo  instead  of  the  four-eighteen,  none  of  this 
would  have  happened.  I  shouldn't  have  met  that 
blighter  Howard,  nor  gone  out  with  those  girls;  and, 
even  so,  none  of  it  would  have  happened  if  I  had 
taken  my  footer  boots  down  to  be  mended,  as  I  ought 
to  have  done,  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  instead  of  loaf- 
ing in  my  study.  One  can't  tell  what's  going  to  be 
a  blessing  till  one's  done  with  it.  If  I  hadn't  had 
that  row  I  should  never  have  met  you  and  I  should 
never  have  met  Muriel."  And  he  paused,  wondering 
what  would  have  happened  to  him  if  he  had  caught 
the  four-eighteen  and  taken  his  boots  down  to  be 
mended.  He  would  have  stayed  on  another  year  at 
school;  he  would  have  been  captain  of  the  house;  he 
would  have  gone  up  to  the  'Varsity.  He  would  have 
had  a  good  time,  no  doubt,  but  where  would  he  be 
now?  Probably  an  assistant  master  at  a  second-rate 
public  school,  an  ill-paid  post  that  had  been  given 
to  him  because  he  was  good  at  games.  Probably  also 
he  would  be  engaged  to  April,  and  he  would  be  mak- 
ing desperate  calculations  with  account  books  to  dis- 
cover whether  it  was  possible  to  marry  on  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  a  year. 


THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS    327 

"That  row,"  he  said,  "was  the  luckiest  thing  for 
me  that  ever  happened." 

And  they  sat  for  a  while  hi  silence  pondering  the 
strange  contradictions  of  life,  pondering  also  the  in- 
stability of  human  schemes.  One  might  plan  out 
the  future,  pigeon-hole  it,  have  everything  arranged 
as  by  a  machine,  and  then  what  happened?  Some- 
one caught  a  train  at  three-thirty  instead  of  at  four- 
eighteen,  or  was  too  lazy  to  take  his  football  boots 
down  to  be  mended  on  a  wet  afternoon,  and  the  plans 
that  had  been  built  up  so  elaborately  through  so 
many  years  were  capsized,  and  one  had  to  begin 
again. 

"And  it's  so  funny,"  Roland  said,  "to  think  of  the 
fuss  they  made  at  Fernhurst  about  a  thing  like  that — 
just  taking  a  girl  out  for  a  walk,  and  you'd  think  I'd 
broken  the  whole  ten  commandments,  and  all  the 
talk  there  was  about  my  corrupting  the  pure  soul  of 
Brewster." 

Gerald  broke  into  a  great  laugh. 

"The  pure  soul  of  Brewster!"  he  said.  "My  lord! 
if  you'd  known  what  he  was  like  after  he'd  been  in 
the  house  a  term.  He'd  have  taken  a  blooming  lot 
of  corrupting  then.  Gawd,  but  he  was  a  lad!"  And 
Gerald  supplied  some  intriguing  anecdotes  of  Brew- 
ster's  early  life.  "He  was  a  lad!"  And  Brewster's 
name  started  a  train  of  associations,  and  Roland 
asked  Gerald  whether  he  had  heard  of  Baker. 

"Baker?  Baker?"  Gerald  repeated.  "No.  I  can't 
say  I  ever  remember  hearing  anything  about  him. 
He  must  have  been  after  my  time." 

Roland  got  up,  walked  across  to  his  bureau,  and 
taking  a  bunch  of  keys  from  his  hip  pocket  unlocked 
a  small  top  drawer.  He  took  the  drawer  out  and, 
bringing  it  across,  laid  it  on  the  table.  It  was  full  of 


328  ROLAND  WHATELY 

photographs,  letters,  ribbons,  dance  programs,  and  he 
began  to  fumble  among  them :  "I  think  we  shall  find 
something  about  Master  Baker  here,"  he  said.  "Ah, 
yes,  here  we  are!"  And  he  handed  across  to  Gerald 
a  large  house  photograph.  "There  he  is,  bottom  row, 
fourth  from  the  right." 

Gerald  scrutinized  the  photograph,  holding  it  to  the 
light. 

"Lord,  yes,"  he  said,  "that  tells  its  own  story; 
what's  happened  to  him  now?" 

"He  was  head  of  the  house  two  years  ago;  he's  gone 
up  to  Selwyn.  I  believe  he's  going  into  the  Church." 

Gerald  smiled.  "When  we  all  meet  at  an  old  boys' 
dinner  in  twenty  years'  time  we  shall  get  one  or  two 
shocks.  Think  of  Brewster  bald,  and  Maconochie 
stout,  and  Evans  the  father  of  a  family!" 

"My  lord!" 

And  they  began  to  rummage  in  the  drawer,  till  the 
table  was  littered  with  letters  and  photographs. 

The  photographs  led  them  from  one  reminiscence 
to  another;  and  in  that  little  series  of  isolated  recol- 
lections they  lived  again  through  all  that  had  re- 
mained vivid  to  them  of  their  school  days. 

"Heavens!"  said  Gerald,  "who's  that?  You  don't 
mean  to  say  that's  Harrison !  Why,  I  remember  him 
when  he  first  came,  a  ridiculous  kid;  we  used  to  call 
him  'Little  Belly.'  About  the  first  week  he  was  there 
he  showed  his  gym.  belt  to  someone  and  said:  'Isn't 
it  small?  Haven't  I  a  little  belly?' ' 

"And  here's  Hardy,"  said  Roland.  "Do  you  re- 
member that  innings  of  his  in  the  final  house  match, 
and  how  we  lined  up  on  each  side  of  the  pavilion  and 
cheered  him  when  he  came  out?" 

"And  do  you  remember  that  try  of  his  in  the  three 
cock? — two  men  and  the  back  to  beat  and  only  a 


THE  SHEDDING  OF  THE  CHRYSALIS    329 

couple  of  yards  to  spare  between  them  and  the  touch- 
line.  I  don't  know  how  he  kept  his  foot  inside." 

And  as  the  store  of  Fernhurst  photographs  became 
exhausted  they  found  among  the  notes  and  hotel 
bills  delightful  memories  of  much  that  they  had  in 
common. 

"The  Cafe  du  Nord,  Ghent!  My  son,"  said  Gerald, 
"do  you  remember  that  top-hole  Burgundy?  Yes, 
here  it  is — two  bottles  of  Volnay,  fifty-three  francs." 

"Wasn't  that  the  night  when  that  ripping  little 
German  girl  smiled  at  us  across  the  room?" 

"And  when  I  said  that  another  bottle  of  Volnay  was 
better  than  any  woman  in  the  world." 

A  torn  hotel  bill  at  Cologne  recalled  a  disappoint- 
ing evening  in  the  company  of  two  German  girls 
whom  they  had  met  at  a  dance  and  taken  out  to  sup- 
per— an  evening  that  had  ended,  to  the  surprise  of 
both  of  them,  in  a  platonic  pressure  of  the  hands. 

"Do  you  remember  how  we  stood  under  the  cathe- 
dral and  watched  them  pass  out  of  sight  behind  the 
turning  of  the  Hohe  Strasse,  and  then  you  turned  to 
me  and  said:  'There's  no  understanding  women'?" 

And  then  there  was  the  evening  when  they  had 
gone  to  the  opera  in  Bonn  and  had  had  supper  after- 
wards in  a  little  restaurant,  from  the  window  of  which 
they  could  see  the  Rhine  flowing  beneath  them  in  the 
moonlight,  and  its  beauty  and  the  tender  sentimental 
melodies  of  Verdi  had  produced  in  both  of  them  a 
mood  of  rare  appreciation ;  they  had  sat  in  silence  and 
made  no  attempt  to  express  in  talk  the  sense  of  won- 
derment. Much  was  recalled  to  them  by  these  pieces 
of  crumpled  paper,  and  when  Roland  put  away  the 
drawer  it  seemed  to  Gerald  that  he  was  locking  away 
a  whole  period  of  his  life.  And  when  they  said  good- 
night to  each  other  on  the  stairs  Gerald  could  not 


330  ROLAND  VVHATELY 

help  wondering  whether,  in  the  evening  that  had  just 
passed,  their  friendship  had  not  reached  the  limit  of 
its  tether.  Roland  was  beginning  a  new  life  in  which 
he  would  have  no  part.  As  he  heard  his  friend's  door 
shut  behind  him  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  never 
again  would  they  reach  that  same  point  of  intimacy. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

AN  END  AND  A  BEGINNING 

NO  doubt  the  groundsman  at  the  Oval  rubbed  his 
hands  together  with  satisfaction  when  he  looked 
out  of  his  bedroom  window  on  the  following  morn- 
ing. It  was  not  particularly  warm;  indeed  he  must 
have  shivered  as  he  stood  with  his  shaving  brush 
in  his  hand,  looking  at  the  sky  instead  of  at  his  mir- 
ror. But  the  sky  was  blue  and  the  sun  was  shining, 
and  he  would,  no  doubt,  be  warm  enough  after  he  had 
sent  down  a  couple  of  overs  at  the  nets.  The  thoughts 
of  Roland  as  he  surveyed  the  bright  spring  morning 
were  not  dissimilar.  He  saw  in  it  a  happy  augury. 
Summer  was  beginning. 

They  were  a  silent  party  at  breakfast;  each  was 
preoccupied  with  his  own  affairs.  They  had  decided 
to  leave  Charing  Cross  at  twelve-thirty-five  by  a  train 
that  reached  Hogstead  at  half-past  one;  the  service 
was  fixed  for  two  o'clock.  They  would  not  need  to 
leave  the  house  till  a  quarter  to  twelve.  They  had 
therefore  three  hours  to  put  in. 

"Now,  I  suggest,"  said  Gerald,  "that  you  should 
come  down  with  me  to  the  barber's  and  have  a  shave." 

"But  I've  shaved  already." 

"I  daresay  you  have,  but  on  a  day  like  this  one 
can't  shave  too  often." 

And  Roland,  in  spite  of  his  protests,  was  led  down 

331 


332  ROLAND  WHATELY 

to  the  shop.  Once  there,  Gerald  refused  to  be  satis- 
fied with  a  mere  shave. 

"This  is  a  big  occasion,"  he  said.  And  he  insisted 
that  Roland  should  be  shampooed,  that  he  should 
have  his  hair  singed,  that  his  face  should  be  oiled  and 
massaged  and  his  finger  nails  polished. 

"Now  you  look  something  like  a  bridegroom."  And 
in  defiance  of  Roland's  blushes  he  explained  to  the 
girl  at  the  counter  that  his  friend  had  intended  to  be 
married  unshaven. 

"What  would  you  think,"  he  said,  "if  your  fiance 
turned  up  at  the  altar  with  his  hair  unbrushed  and 
chin  all  over  bristles?" 

The  girl  was  incapable  of  any  repartee  other  than 
a  giggle  and  the  suggestion  that  he  should  get  along 
with  himself.  Gerald  then  announced  his  intention 
of  buying  a  pair  of  gloves,  and  when  he  reached  the 
shop  he  pretended  that  he  was  the  bridegroom  and 
Roland  the  best  man.  He  took  the  shopmen  into  his 
confidence  and  told  them  that  the  bride  was  very 
particular — "a  very  finicking  young  person  indeed" 
— and  he  must  have  exactly  the  shade  of  yellow  that 
would  match  her  orange  blossom.  He  produced  from 
his  waistcoat  pocket  a  piece  of  flame-colored  silk. 
"It's  got  to  go  with  this,"  he  said. 

In  the  same  manner  he  proceeded  to  acquire  a  tie, 
a  pair  of  spats,  a  silk  handkerchief.  As  he  told  his 
father  afterwards,  he  did  splendidly,  and  kept  Roland 
from  worrying  till  it  was  time  for  them  to  dress. 

But  the  journey  to  the  station  was,  even  Gerald 
confessed,  pretty  terrible.  It  was  only  five  minutes' 
walk  and  it  had  never  occurred  to  them  to  hire  a 
cab.  They  wished  they  had,  however,  as  they  stepped 
down  the  long  white  steps  into  the  street  that  di- 
vided the  even  from  the  odd  numbered  houses  of 


AN  END  AND  A  BEGINNING  333 

Hammerton  Villas.  Everyone  they  passed  turned  to 
stare  at  them.  They  were  so  obviously  a  wedding 
party.  "Which  is  it?"  they  overheard  a  navvy  ask 
his  mate.  "Should  be  the  one  with  the  biggest  flower 
in  his  button-hole." 

"Garn,  he's  much  too  young!" 

Roland  hated  it,  and  the  half  hour  in  the  train  was 
even  worse.  As  soon  as  they  reached  Charing  Cross 
he  made  a  dash  for  the  platform,  leaving  Gerald  to 
collect  the  tickets.  But  his  embarrassment  was  yet 
to  be  made  complete,  for  as  he  stood  on  the  footboard 
of  the  carriage  he  heard  a  deep  booming  voice  be- 
hind him. 

"Hullo,  bridegroom!"  And  he  turned  to  face  the 
bulky  figure  of  a  maiden  aunt  and  the  snigger  of  a 
porter.  He  did  not  feel  safe  till  he  had  heard  the 
scream  of  the  driver's  whistle,  felt  the  carriage  vibrate 
beneath  him  and  after  two  jolts  pull  slowly  out  of 
the  station. 

He  talked  little  on  the  journey,  but  sat  in  a  corner 
of  the  carriage  watching  through  the  window  the 
houses  slip  past  him,  till  the  train  reached  meadow- 
land  and  open  country.  He  knew  every  acre  of  that 
hour's  journey.  He  had  made  it  so  often  with  such 
eager  haste.  How  much,  he  wondered,  would  not  have 
happened  to  him  before  the  time  came  for  him  to 
make  it  again?  He  tried  to  marshal  the  reflections 
that  should  be  appropriate  to  such  an  occasion,  but 
he  could  not.  Life  moved  too  fast  for  thought.  A 
fierce  rhythm  was  completing  its  circle.  He  sat  watch- 
ing the  landmarks  fall  one  by  one  behind  him,  appre- 
ciating confusedly  the  nature  of  the  experience  to 
which  he  was  being  hurried. 

It  was  the  same  at  the  church.  He  did  not  feel  in 
the  least  nervous.  He  told  a  couple  of  good  stories 


334.  ROLAND  WHATELY 

to  Gerald  in  the  chancel ;  he  settled  the  account  with 
the  verger;  he  walked  down  the  aisle  and  began  to 
speak  to  his  friends  as  they  took  their  places. 

"So  good  of  you  to  come;  hope  you  had  a  pleasant 
journey.  See  you  afterwards." 

Gerald  was  amazed.  "You're  wonderful!  Why, 
you're  as  calm  as  if  you  were  at  a  tea  party!" 

Roland  smiled,  but  said  nothing.  He  attributed  no 
credit  to  himself.  How  else  should  he  behave?  A 
swiftly  spinning  top  would,  at  a  first  glance,  appear 
to  be  poised  unconsciously  upon  its  point.  It  did  not 
begin  to  wobble  till  its  pace  was  lost.  And  was  not 
he  himself  a  swiftly  spinning  top? 

He  did  not  even  feel  nervous  when  a  commotion  in 
the  porch  warned  him  of  the  arrival  of  his  bride;  he 
stood  firmly,  did  not  fidget,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
door  till  he  saw,  framed  there  picture-wise,  Muriel,  in 
white  and  orange,  upon  her  father's  arm.  He  then 
turned  and  faced  the  altar.  The  organ  boomed  out  its 
heavy,  ponderous  notes,  but  he  hardly  heard  them. 
His  ears  were  strained  for  the  silken  sound  that  drew 
nearer  to  him  every  moment.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  altar,  and  it  was  the  faint  perfume  of  her 
hair  that  told  him  first  that  she  was  beside  him. 

During  the  early  part  of  the  service  he  comported 
himself  with  a  mechanical  efficiency.  His  perform- 
ance was  dignified  and  correct.  When  he  found  a  dif- 
ficulty in  putting  the  ring  on  to  her  finger  he  did  not 
become  flustered,  but  left  her  to  put  it  on  herself. 
The  ceremony  had  for  him  a  certain  emotional  sig- 
nificance. Once,  as  they  stood  close  together,  the 
back  of  his  hand  brushed  against  hers  and  the  cool 
contact  of  her  fingers  reminded  him  of  the  serious 
oath  that  he  was  taking  and  of  how  he  was  bringing 
to  it  a  definite,  if  vaguely  formulated,  ideal  of  tender- 


AN  END  AND  A  BEGINNING  335 

ness  and  loyalty.  He  meant  to  make  of  their  mar- 
riage a  reality  other  than  the  miserable,  dissatisfied 
compromise  that,  for  the  vast  majority  of  men  and 
women,  succeeded  the  first  brief  enchantment.  His 
lips  framed  no  prayer;  it  had  been  for  a  long  while 
his  belief  that  the  molding  of  a  man's  fortunes  lay 
within  his  own  powers.  But  that  desire  for  happi- 
ness was  none  the  less  a  prayer.  It  went  as  quickly 
as  it  had  come,  and  he  was  once  again  the  lay  figure 
whose  contortions  all  these  good  people  had  been 
called  together  to  observe.  He  remained  a  lay  figure 
during  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

He  walked  down  the  aisle  proudly  with  Muriel  on 
his  arm ;  in  the  carriage  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  and 
when  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  church  he  lifted  her 
veil  and  imprinted  a  gentle  kiss  upon  her  cheek.  He 
stood  beside  her  in  the  drawing-room  and  received 
each  guest  with  a  swift,  fluttering  smile  and  a  shake 
of  the  hand.  The  majority  of  them  he  did  not  know, 
or  had  seen  only  occasionally.  They  were  the  friends 
and  relatives  of  Muriel.  There  were  only  a  few  in 
whom  Roland  was  able  to  take  any  personal  interest. 
Ralph  was  there,  and  April.  He  had  not  spoken  to 
April  since  the  evening  when  he  had  kissed  her,  and 
he  momentarily  lost  his  composure  when  he  saw,  over 
the  shoulder  of  an  old  lady  whose  hand  he  was  politely 
shaking,  the  brown  hair  and  delicate  features  to 
which  he  had  been  unfaithful.  In  what  manner 
should  he  receive  her?  But  he  need  not  have  worried. 
She  settled  that  for  him.  She  walked  forward  and 
took  his  hand  in  simple  comradeship  and  smiled  at 
him.  She  looked  very  pretty  in  a  gray  coat  and  skirt 
and  wide-brimmed  claret-colored  hat.  He  recalled 
the  day  when  she  had  worn  that  hat  for  the  first 
time  and  her  anxiety  that  she  should  be  pretty  with 


336  ROLAND  WHATELY 

it.  "You  do  like  it,  don't  you,  darling?"  But  some- 
one else  was  already  waiting  with  outstretched  hand. 
"You  looked  so  sweet,  Muriel,  darling,"  an  aged  fe- 
male was  saying.  "Your  husband's  a  lucky  man!" 
And  by  the  time  that  was  over,  the  cake  was  waiting 
to  be  cut  and  champagne  bottles  had  to  be  opened, 
and  Roland  was  passing  from  one  group  of  persons  to 
another,  saying  the  same  things,  making  the  same 
gestures:  "Yes,  we're  spending  our  honeymoon  in 
England  .  .  .  Bamfield,  a  little  village  under  the 
Downs  .  .  .  Sussex's  so  quiet  .  .  .  such  a  mistake  to 
try  and  do  too  much  on  a  honeymoon." 

He  had  barely  time  to  exchange  a  couple  of  remarks 
with  Beatrice.  She  came  towards  him,  her  hand 
stretched  out  in  simple  comradeship. 

"Good  luck,  Roland,"  she  said.  "You  are  going  to 
be  awfully  happy.  I  know  you  are." 

"And  when  we  come  back  you  must  come  and  see 
us;  won't  you,  Beatrice?" 

"Of  course  I  shall." 

"Often,"  he  urged. 

"As  often  as  you  ask  me." 

Before  he  had  time  to  reply  an  obscure  relative  had 
begun  to  assure  him  of  his  wonderful  fortune  and  of 
his  eternal  felicity. 

He  caught  glimpses  of  Muriel's  white  dress  passing 
through  the  ranks  of  admiration,  and  then  he  found 
himself  being  led  by  the  arm  to  the  table  where  the 
champagne  was  being  opened  and  a  cricket  friend  of 
his,  a  married  man,  was  adjuring  him  to  take  as  much 
as  possible.  "You  don't  know  what  you're  in  for, 
old  man."  And  then  Gerald  was  telling  him  that  it 
was  time  he  went  upstairs  to  change,  that  Muriel 
had  gone  already. 

"You're  really  wonderful,  old  man,"  Gerald  said, 


AN  END  AND  A  BEGINNING  337 

when  they  were  alone.  "I  can't  think  how  you  did 
it.  It's  cured  me  of  ever  wanting  to  get  married." 

There  were  several  telegrams  lying  on  his  dressing- 
table;  he  opened  them  and  tossed  them  half  read 
upon  the  floor.  "Thank  God  I  haven't  got  to  answer 
those,"  he  said.  And  while  he  changed  into  a  gray 
tweed  suit  Gerald  continued  to  perform  what  he  con- 
sidered to  be  the  functions  of  a  best  man.  He  chat- 
tered about  the  service,  the  champagne,  the  wedding 
cake,  the  behavior  of  the  guests.  "And,  I  say,  old 
son,  who  was  that  mighty  topping  girl  in  gray,  with 
the  large  wine-colored  hat?" 

"That?    Oh,  that  was  April— April  Curtis." 

"What!  the  girl  that- 

"Yes,  that's  the  one." 

Gerald  was  momentarily  overwhelmed.  "Well,  I 
must  say  I'm  surprised,"  he  began.  Then  paused, 
realizing  that  as  Roland  had  just  married  his  sister 
it  was  hardly  possible  for  him  to  draw  any  compari- 
son between  her  and  April.  He  contented  himself 
with  a  highly  colored  compliment: 

"A  jolly  pretty  girl,"  he  said,  "and  she'll  be  a 
beautiful  woman." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door  and 
Mrs.  Marston's  voice  was  heard  inquiring  whether 
Roland  had  nearly  finished. 

"Hurry  up,  old  man,"  said  Gerald,  "Muriel's  ready." 
And  two  minutes  later  he  was  running,  with  Muriel 
on  his  arm,  through  a  shower  of  rose  leaves  and  con- 
fetti. They  both  sank  back  into  the  cushions,  pant- 
ing, laughing,  exhausted.  And  as  the  gates  of  the 
drive  swung  behind  them  they  said,  almost  simul- 
taneously: "Thank  heaven,  that's  over!" 

But  a  moment  later  Muriel  was  qualifying  her  re- 
lief with  the  assertion  that  it  had  been  "great  fun." 


338  ROLAND  WHATELY 

"All  those  serious-faced  people  came  up  and  wished 
me  good  luck.  If  I'd  encouraged  them  they'd  have 
started  taking  me  into  corners  and  preaching  sermons 
at  me." 

But  Roland  did  not  find  it  easy  to  respond  to  her 
gayety.  Now  that  it  was  all  over  he  felt  tired,  physi- 
cally and  emotionally.  When  they  reached  the  sta- 
tion he  bought  a  large  collection  of  papers  and  maga- 
zines, so  that  their  two  hours'  journey  might  be  passed 
quietly.  But  this  was  not  at  all  in  accordance  with 
Muriel's  ideas. 

"Don't  be  so  dull,  Roland!"  she  complained.  "I 
want  to  be  amused." 

He  did  his  best ;  they  talked  of  all  their  guests  and 
of  how  each  one  of  them  had  behaved. 

"Wasn't  old  Miss  Peter  ridiculous,  dressing  up 
so  young?"  said  Muriel;  and  Roland  asked  whether 
she  didn't  think  that  Guy  Armstrong  had  been  pay- 
ing rather  marked  attention  to  Miss  Latimer. 

"Why,  he's  been  doing  that  for  months,"  said 
Muriel.  "We've  all  been  wondering  when  he's  going 
to  propose.  I  don't  mind  betting  that  at  this  very 
moment  she's  doing  her  best  to  make  him.  She's 
probably  suggested  that  he  should  take  her  home, 
and  she's  insisted  on  going  the  longest  way." 

But  Roland's  conversational  energy  was  soon  ex- 
hausted, and  after  a  long  and  slightly  embarrassed 
silence  Muriel  tossed  back  her  head  impatiently  and 
picked  up  a  magazine. 

"You  are  not  very  interesting,  are  you?"  she  said. 

Roland  considered  it  wiser  to  make  no  response. 
He  settled  himself  back  into  his  seat,  rested  his 
head  against  his  hand,  and  allowed  his  thoughts  to 
travel  back  over  the  incidents  of  the  afternoon. 

It  had  been  a  great  success ;  there  could  be  no  doubt 


AN  END  AND  A  BEGINNING  339 

of  that.  Everything  had  gone  off  splendidly.  But 
he  was  unaccountably  oppressed  by  a  vague  sense  of 
apprehension,  of  impending  trouble.  He  endeavored 
to  fix  his  thoughts  on  reassuring  subjects.  He  re- 
called his  momentary  talk  with  Beatrice,  and  remem- 
bered that  that  afternoon  he  had  addressed  her  for 
the  first  time  by  her  Christian  name.  She  had  shown 
no  displeasure  at  his  use  of  it,  and  as  she  smiled  at 
him  he  fancied  he  had  read  in  the  soft  wavering 
luster  of  her  eyes  the  promise  of  a  surer  friendship, 
of  deeper  intimacy.  He  had  seen  so  little  of  her  dur- 
ing the  last  few  months.  It  would  be  exciting  to 
meet  her  on  his  return,  at  full  liberty,  on  an  assured 
status,  in  his  own  house. 

His  reverie  traveled  thence  to  Gerald's  easy  good 
humor,  his  unflagging  energy,  his  bubbling  comment- 
ary on  the  idiosyncrasies  of  his  father's  friends,  his 
surprised  admiration  of  April;  and  the  thought  of 
April  brought  back  in  a  sudden  wave  the  former  mood 
of  doubt  and  apprehension.  How  little,  after  all,  he 
and  Muriel  knew  of  one  another ;  they  were  strangers 
beneath  the  mask  of  their  light-hearted  friendship. 
He  looked  at  her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  Her 
magazine  had  fallen  forward  on  to  her  lap.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  dreamily  on  the  opposite  wall  of  the 
carriage.  Her  thoughts  were,  no  doubt,  loitering 
pleasantly  in  a  colored  dream  among  the  agreeable 
episodes  of  the  afternoon — her  dress,  her  bridesmaids, 
her  bouquets,  the  nice  things  everyone  had  said  to 
her.  As  he  looked  at  her,  so  calm,  so  self-possessed, 
Roland  was  momentarily  appalled  by  the  difficulty 
of  establishing  on  a  new  basis  their  old  relationship. 

They  had  been  comrades  before  they  had  been 
lovers.  In  their  courtship  passion  had  been  so  occa- 
sional a  visitant. 


340  ROLAND  WHATELY 

They  were  both  in  a  subdued  state  of  mind  when 
they  stepped  up  into  the  dogcart  that  had  been  sent 
to  meet  them  at  the  station. 

"Tired,  Elfkin?"  he  whispered. 

"A  little,"  she  said. 

The  air  was  cold  and  she  snuggled  close  to  him  for 
warmth ;  he  took  her  hand  in  his  and  held  it,  pressing 
it  tenderly. 

They  had  a  three-mile  drive  through  the  quiet 
English  countryside. 

And  it  was  quite  dark  when  the  dogcart  eventually 
drew  up  before  a  small  cottage  and  a  kindly,  plump 
woman  came  out  to  meet  them. 

"Ah,  there  you  be!"  she  said.  "I  was  just  ex- 
pecting you.  The  supper's  all  laid  out,  and  I've  only 
got  to  put  the  eggs  on  to  boil,  and  there.'s  some  hot 
water  in  the  bedroom." 

Roland  thanked  her,  took  down  the  two  suitcases, 
and  followed  Muriel  and  her  up  the  narrow  creaking 
stairs. 

"There,"  she  said,  opening  a  door.  "There  you 
are.  And  if  you  want  anything  you  ring  that  bell 
on  the  table.  I'll  just  run  down  and  get  on  with  the 
supper." 

Roland  and  Muriel  were  left  alone  in  a  small  room, 
the  greater  part  of  which  was  occupied  by  a  large 
double  bed,  over  which  had  been  hung,  with  a  singular 
lack  of  humor,  a  Scriptural  admonition:  "Love  one 
another."  The  ceiling  was  low,  the  window  was  over- 
hung with  ivy.  In  midsummer  it  would  be  a  stuffy 
room.  They  looked  at  each  other;  they  were  alone 
for  the  first  time,  and  they  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
There  was  an  awkward  silence. 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  to  tidy  up,"  said  Roland. 

"Well,  of  course,"  she  answered  a  little  petulantly. 


AN  END  AND  A  BEGINNING  341 

"All  right,  then ;  I'll  go  downstairs.  Come  and  tell 
me  when  you're  ready." 

She  was  standing  between  him  and  the  door,  and  as 
he  passed  her  he  made  an  ill-judged  attempt  to  take 
her  in  his  arms.  She  was  tired  and  she  was  dusty,  and 
she  did  not  want  to  be  kissed  just  then.  She  shook 
herself  away  from  him.  And  this  mistake  increased 
Roland's  despondency,  accentuated  his  nervousness, 
his  vague  distaste  for  this  summoning  of  emotion  to 
order,  at  a  fixed  date  and  at  a  fixed  hour. 

Supper  was  not  a  cheerful  meal;  at  first  they  at- 
tempted to  be  jovial,  but  their  enthusiasm  was  forced, 
and  long  silences  began  to  drift  into  their  conversa- 
tion. They  grew  increasingly  embarrassed  and  tried 
to  prolong  the  meal  as  long  as  possible.  Muriel  was 
not  fond  of  coffee  and  rarely  took  it,  but  when  Roland 
asked  her  if  she  would  like  some  she  welcomed  the 
suggestion:  "Oh,  yes,  do." 

Mrs.  Humphries,  however,  had  no  coffee,  but  when 
she  read  the  disappointment  of  the  young  bride's 
face  she  said  she  would  see  if  she  could  not  borrow 
some  from  her  neighbor.  And  while  she  ran  over  the 
village  street  Muriel  and  Roland  sat  opposite  each 
other  in  silence;  her  hands  were  folded  in  her  lap, 
and  she  stared  straight  in  front  of  her;  he  played  with 
the  spoon  of  the  salt  cellar,  making  little  pyramids  of 
salt  round  the  edge. 

At  last  the  coffee  arrived ;  its  warmth  momentarily 
cheered  them  and  they  tried  to  talk,  to  make  fun  of 
their  friends,  to  scheme  things  for  their  future.  But 
the  brooding  sense  of  embarrassment  returned.  Ro- 
land, in  the  intervals  of  occasional  remarks,  continued 
to  erect  his  pyramids  of  salt. 

"Oh,  don't,  don't,  don't,"  said  Muriel  impatiently; 
"you  get  on  my  nerves  with  your  fidgeting." 


342  ROLAND  WHATELY 

Roland  apologized,  dropped  the  spoon,  and  without 
occupation  for  his  hands  felt  more  uncomfortable 
than  before.  They  continued  a  spasmodic  conversa- 
tion till  Mrs.  Humphries  came  in  to  tell  them  that 
she  would  be  going  to  bed  directly. 

"We  get  up  early  here,"  she  said.  And  would  they 
please  to  remember  to  blow  out  the  lamp  and  not  to 
turn  down  the  wick,  as  her  last  lodger  had  done.  She 
wished  them  a  good-night,  and  said  she  would  bring 
them  a  cup  of  tea  when  she  called  them  in  the  morn- 
ing. They  heard  her  bolt  the  front  door  and  fasten 
the  shutter  across  the  kitchen  window,  then  tread 
heavily  up  the  creaking  stairs.  For  a  little  while  they 
listened  to  her  movements  hi  the  room.  Then  came 
the  heavy  creak  of  a  bedstead. 

They  were  alone  in  the  silent  house. 

"Well,  I  suppose  we  must  be  going  up,"  he  said. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Will  you  go  up  first  and  I'll  come  when  you're 
ready?" 

"All  right." 

He  made  no  attempt  to  touch  her  as  she  passed  him. 
She  paused  in  the  doorway.  A  mocking  smile,  a  last 
desperate  rally  fluttered  over  her  lips. 

"Don't  forget  to  turn  the  lamp  out,  Roland.  My 
last  lodger  .  .  ." 

But  she  never  completed  the  sentence;  and  their 
eyes  met  in  such  a  look  as  two  shipwrecked  mariners 
must  exchange  when  they  realize  that  they  can  hold 
out  no  longer,  and  that  the  next  wave  will  dash  their 
numb  fingers  from  the  friendly  spar. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


:..  . 


Book  S)ip-35m-9,'62(D2218s4)4280 


Ubrary 


College 
Library 

PR 

60^5 

W357r 


A     001  193007    0 


